


Snowfall

by Ruinous



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-06
Updated: 2016-12-10
Packaged: 2017-12-17 21:36:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 46,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/872202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruinous/pseuds/Ruinous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He bled out on the snowy grounds of the Night’s Watch, not expecting to wake again. But he did wake, and it was not in the forlorn outreaches of the Wall, but back at Winterfell, where King Robert Baratheon was a day’s ride away… Old Nan had always warned against changing fate, but how can Jon refuse a chance to prevent the game of thrones?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> We’re pretty sure that Jon does not die at the end of Dance with Dragons, but considering there are no more books and I can’t very well say which direction GRRM is planning to take this, it’s a fitting place to end/begin. Let’s just say his resurrection goes a little differently than planned. And as important as Jon being at the wall is, I’m sure all of us Jon fans wanted to see him participate in the war of Westros. So onmarch and off we go.

Jon awoke with a gasp.

His eyes snapped open, but he could see nothing but a strange wash of blue, red, and beige above him. His vision was hazy. He was vaguely aware that he was lying on his back, though he was sure that he’d fallen…

“Jon! Jon! Oh thank the gods you’re alright!” The blur of red and beige sharpened to a face, and it became apparent that it was a person leaning over him. It was Robb. He had a relived smile on his face.

…forward. He’d fallen forward when he’d been stabbed and the cool kiss of steel had spread that horrid numbness across his body. His heart still thudded at the thought. His brothers. His sworn brothers. They had slain him.

Just as Robb had been slain.

“Am I dead?” he asked weakly, moving to push himself to a sitting position. Robb had to quickly move back to avoid having their faces bump into each other. They were on a bridge of some sort, surrounded by snow and horses and men. Father’s company. Even Father was there, along with Bran, looking at him with no small amount of concern on their faces.

“What—no Jon! By the gods, no! As if I’d let you die that easily.”

Jon furrowed his brows, “What?”

“You only fell off your horse, idiot,” Robb replied with a laugh, but Jon could see genuine worry behind those blue eyes.

“I—what?”

This was all very confusing. He did not understand. If he were not dead, then was Robb alive? But it was impossible. Was this a dream then? But he’d never had a dream so clear.

“Has the fall turned you into an imbecile too, Snow?” Theon Greyjoy snorted from his place atop his palfrey.

Grey eyes snapped to the ward of the Starks, narrowing into slits of chilled ice. _Traitor_. If this was a dream, what was _he_ doing in it? Jon itched for Longclaw.

Theon stiffened, a touch of hesitation flashing across his face, as if he’d sensed something of Jon’s mood.

Ned Stark appeared before anything else could transpire, bending on one knee and holding out a hand, “Are you feeling alright, Jon?”

His voice was soft, his expression gentle. Jon couldn’t understand. Dazedly he took the hand, and allowed his father to pull him up. It felt surreal.

“Give the boy a minute,” Cayn said with a hint of amusement in his voice, “per’aps he be needing some time to get orientated. Sounds to me like ‘e hit his ‘ead pretty hard on the ways down.”

And then they all began talking at once, telling and teasing him about how he’d suddenly stopped in the middle of the bridge and toppled right down from his horse. Jon’s ears were ringing. The only ones who didn’t speak were Father and Bran. Bran. Jon looked to his younger brother, who smiled at the glance as if Jon had just answered some secret inquiry. Bran. Somehow he felt as though that distinction was important.

Twenty of Father’s guardsmen. Father himself, Robb, Theon, him. That in itself was not so unusual, but _Bran_. This all seemed very familiar somehow. This scene. As if it had been etched into his mind.

And suddenly, he knew where he was. He knew what memory this was.

He looked sharply to Desmond and Alebelly, who were, sure enough, carrying twin bundles which could only be direwolf pups. Atop Robb’s horse was Grey Wind, left alone for the moment as his master had dismounted.

But it didn’t make any sense. Why would he be dreaming about this now, when he on the edge of death? Or was he dead already? And even then, he hadn’t fallen off his horse. Why was it different now?

And it did not feel like a dream.

The chatter was confusing, but not in the way that dream talk was. If he concentrated hard enough he could understand what every single person was saying. The wind was stinging cold, but it was not the numbness of death, but rather the familiar wakeful chill that he remembered from Winterfell.

But Robb, Father, Bran, Theon, Father’s company, they had to be dreams.

_Or maybe, maybe it’s me who was the dream._

Dare he believe it?

Jon was not sure if he should allow that line of thought. Dare he think that the disastrous wars of Westeros never occurred and that all of it was simply one long nightmare? And yet he did not know how he could dream himself an entire two years of memories.

 _You know nothing, Jon Snow,_ Ygritte whispered in his ear.

His head was pounding.

He pushed past Robb, grabbed the reigns of his horse and hoisted himself up in one fluid motion. His body moved almost automatically, because somewhere in the back of his scattered mind, he knew what he had to do. He turned his horse back the way they had come from, and stirred him into a gallop.

“Wait, Jon!” Father called, and for once Jon ignored him.

Jon finally allowed his horse to slow again when they neared the corpse of the direwolf they’d left behind. He dismounted silently as a show of respect for the dead mother. He heard his father’s company ride up behind him, but that was not where his focus lay.

He waded through the snow to where he had found Ghost the first time, and sure enough, he found the albino direwolf again. Except this time the lone but mighty creature was not breathing ragged breaths, or even any breaths at all.

This time the white direwolf was well and truly dead.

 _Oh, Ghost_ , he thought, as he knelt by the great white wolf and ran a shaking hand through his fur.

Somehow, somehow he knew, although he could not for the life of him figure out where the words came from.

_A life for a life._

Ghost’s, for his. Jon was alive when he should not have been, and Ghost was dead where he should have lived.

He swallowed.

“Is it…?” Bran asked timidly, breaking the silence as his pony trotted up to the redhead’s half brother.

Jon raised his head to stare at Bran. Bran, who might really be alive. Bran, who could still walk. His mouth felt dry and his eyes suspiciously itchy. Father had joined them. And Robb. _Gods_ , Robb. And even Varly, Desmond, the rest of the company of twenty.

Could they really be alive?

Did he really have a… a second chance?

Bran shifted uncomfortably atop his seat, “Jon?”

For a moment Jon could only look at Bran in confusion, not quite understanding his question, but then he remembered what Bran had asked just seconds before. It felt like a lifetime.

“No he’s—” Jon began, only to stop in hesitation. He looked down at the curled up form at his feet. Ghost. Lifeless.

His family lived again, but it was not without its price.

His mood became more solemn, and somberly he gathered the albino direwolf’s broken body and hugged him closely to his chest. He had never wanted this fate for Ghost. Jon doubted he’d ever find as loyal and as trustworthy a companion.

If—if Ghost really had traded his life for Jon’s, Jon could think of no greater debt he owed to his most faithful wolf. He truly did not deserve Ghost.

“He’s dead,” Jon said quietly. He turned to Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell. His Father. Truly alive? It was too much to bear thinking about at the moment. Jon told himself to go one step at a time. “Lord Stark, if it is possible, I would like to cremate this mighty creature… and his mother. They do not deserve to be eaten by whatever is out here.” 

There was a moment of silence.

“Please,” Jon whispered. “Lord Stark, you know that I rarely ask you for anything, but this, please grant me this.”

The look Eddard Stark gave him was a gaze full of sorrow. Jon hated that.

“You do not need to ask it,” the Lord of Winterfell said in a soft tone of voice, “this is the mother and brother of Winterfell’s new protectors. They will be honored.”

Jon moved Ghost back to his mother, because if Ghost had to die like this, at least he would be with the one who birthed him. Wyl and Heward came forth with torches. Heward moved to clear the snow from the corpses with the toe of his boot, but Wyl just tossed his torch in. The bodies were instantly ablaze.

“By the devil!” Heward swore as he jumped back, just barely avoiding being caught in the hungry flames. He dropped his own torch accidentally. It landed in the snow and sizzled out. Heward turned to Wyl with an angry expression on his face, “Are you trying to do me in?”

But Wyl looked even more frightened than Heward had. He was watching the flames with wide, startled eyes. They seemed to almost roar as they reached for the sky, towering high above the two guardsmen.

“I’ve never seen anything catch on this quickly,” Wyl whispered with a hint of trepidation in his voice. The men of the North were not craven, but they knew to fear the gods. “It’s an ill omen, I tell you.”

Jon did not care enough to correct him. His attention was on the fire only, and what the tongues of flame buried within. He thought he might have saw Ghost dancing within the smoke, looking almost happy, though that was likely just a trick of light and Jon’s wishful thinking.

It felt painful, as if his blood had turned to fire and he was the one in the blaze. He thought he should cry, but the tears themselves would not come, as if they’d all been licked dry by the flames before him.

When the affair was done and they were riding back to Winterfell, Jon could not bring himself to speak. Robb and a few of Father’s men tried to engage him, but Jon’s noncommittal answers wore at them and even Robb retreated to play with Grey Wind.

Father, Robb, Bran, and even some of Father’s men kept casting him worried looks as they rode back. Jon wished that they wouldn’t.

When they arrived back in Winterfell, when Arya ran up to meet them, when Sansa peeked out the window and even Lady Catelyn came out with little Rickon, Jon thought he might have felt some degrees better.

Ghost was dead, but they were all alive.

Alive. Father, Robb, Arya. All alive. It was all his prayers and more, and he almost dared not believe it except that when he dismounted and Arya came flying into his arms, she’d never felt more real. And when Rickon began shrilling, he was certain that the high pitched cries would wake any sleeper.

When Hullen came to smack Jon around the head for actually doing something as inane as following off a horse, and when Rodrik jokingly mumbled that Jon needed more balance training, Jon was sure he could not have imagined these details.

The horrible words that had appeared on parchment and the grisly tale that Maester Aemon told him after he’d come back from beyond-the-wall had never seemed so far away.

Or was it all a fantastic dream? It hardly seemed possible that he had—what? Been granted the right to change the past? The idea was inconceivable. It seemed much safer not to think about it, because Jon did not think he could bear having it all ripped away from him all over again.

And yet, if—if by some chance this might be what he thought it was—

_I could change everything._


	2. Chapter I

The first test came the night of the King’s party landing in Winterfell.

As the days went murmuring passed it was harder and harder to think that he was in a dream, and Jon accepted that the gods had given him another chance. Even he could not dream a dream this long. He was determined not to squander it. He would prevent his family’s dire fate whatever it took.

Jon was seated with the squires at the banquet as he’d been before, but his feelings towards the royal entourage was vastly different from when he’d seen them the first time.

When his Father entered with the Queen on his arm, Jon felt hatred flush up through his lungs so strong that he nearly choked. It scared him, because he didn’t think he was capable of this depth of darkness.

 _But why should I not be?_ He asked himself. _They destroyed my family._

 _Another lifetime,_ a voice that sounded suspiciously like Ygritte warned.

 _This too, if I let it,_ he argued back.

It was probably a good thing he was not sitting with them.

He managed to keep his expression completely stoic as the rest of the royal family swept past, but it was a near thing. When Joffrey began laughing at something that Theon had said, Jon realized he could not stay in the Hall a moment later.

He pushed himself up from his seat with mumbled excuses that no one cared to hear, and quickly stalked out. Nobody noticed him go.

Outside the castle was dark and deserted, and Jon was suddenly, inexplicably, reminded of The Wall. He exhaled shakily, but his breath did not mist as it had for the past two years. Winter was coming, but it was not here yet.

More than ever he wished for the company of Ghost. Who else could understand?

And then, as if they’d heard his prayers, or to send him a curse, the gods answered him.

Or rather, a half man did.

“Boy,” a voice called out to him. Jon turned.

Tyrion Lannister was sitting on the ledge above the door to the Great Hall, the bleeding yellow light from the windows striking shadowed planes across his face and giving his grin a sinister cast.

There were reports that he and Sansa had conspired to poison Jeoffrey. There were reports that he’d killed Tywin in the end.

Jon was conflicted. He held no love for the Lannisters, yet they were Tyrion’s kin, and Jon was unsure how much he could trust a kinslayer.

“You don’t like the look of me,” Tyrion observed, his grin fading some.

“Not for the reasons you think,” Jon said, remembering their conversations on his journey to the Night’s Watch. Dwarfs and bastards. It felt like a lifetime ago. “I don’t trust your family.”

He had not meant to give the warning, and yet the warning came anyhow. There seemed to be some part of him which yearned to give this Lannister at least, some courtesy.

Surprise flashed across the dwarf’s mismatched eyes. And then the moment was gone and all that was plain on his face was amusement, “Well well, that’s something I don’t hear every day. I’m being equated to my siblings. I should be honored I suppose.”

“Don’t be,” Jon said shortly.

The dwarf’s lips stretched wide, and then he threw back his head and let out a booming laugh. It was surprising for his little body.

“You boy, are a strange one,” he said in bemusement when he’d finished. He pushed himself off the ledge, and leaped off in a tumbling roll. It was just as impressive as when he’d done it the first time. When he’d straightened and brushed off the seat of his pants, the look he gave Jon was contemplative. “You’ve made your dislike of the Queen’s family clear, to the Queen’s own brother I might add. And yet you’re being almost courteous about it. Well, I suppose if it helps any, I don’t trust my family either. Tyrion Lannister.”

“I know.” Jon paused, and then— “Jon Snow.”

“The bastard eh?”

“I think you knew that before you introduced yourself,” Jon said warily, searching Tyrion’s eyes. He hadn’t noticed the first time, but he was certain of it now.

“So I did,” Tyrion agreed amiably. And then his eyes narrowed, and he leaned forward as if to study Jon’s face, “Though I daresay you have more of the north in you than any of your brothers.”

The dark haired boy shifted uneasily. Tyrion had said that the first time too. Jon remembered because nobody else had said it to him before then, and nobody after. He had been so pleased.

Jon felt nothing of that now.

He was not like Eddard Stark. If he were, he’d be at the Wall, and not playing family here. The real threat were the Others, and yet Jon could think of nothing but how to prevent the destruction of Winterfell.

“Made you uncomfortable have I?” Tyrion asked with an unnervingly perceiving glance, “Now that’s curious.”

“The north can’t be held by dark hair and grey eyes,” Jon retorted, defensive instincts automatically rearing. He thought of how Robb had once been the King of the North. Of the hardships Jon knew came with command and how his brother must have spectacularly overcame them.

“No,” Tyrion agreed again, “but I do have the feeling that you have much more than that.” He favored the younger boy with one last grin before turning and sauntering back into the feast with a tune playing on his lips.

For a long moment the four-and-ten child could do nothing but stare after him, wondering how much the sly Lannister had understood about him from that one short conversation. He had been uncannily good at it the first time around, but the last thing Jon wanted now was for someone to be able to see within the abyss of all that he had experienced. He was not sure he himself could handle it.

_You have more of the north in you than any of your brothers._

Jon closed his eyes and exhaled unsteadily. If that were true, he would not be so afraid to face the truths he knew.

When he went to bed that night it was an uneasy sleep he had. He kept dreaming of crypts, entrapping towers, and the oppressing cold. The last nightmare that fell upon him was of Melisandre’s fire, burning through him just as he’d set Ghost to the torch.

He awoke sweaty and shaky. It was made worse at breakfast, when Robb whispered to him what the King had announced last night.

Father was going to become the King’s Hand. Sansa was going to marry Jeoffrey. And then Lord Stark himself said that Arya and Bran would also be leaving for King’s Landing within the week.

The eggs served at the table that morning suddenly became impossible to swallow.

“Jon?” Robb asked as Jon set down his plate. It was not even half eaten. He searched his brother’s face, before his lips curled into an all too familiar frown. “I know it’s not ideal, but I’m not being allowed to go either, am I? At least we’ll still have each other.”

“Your lady mother would never allow me to stay,” Jon replied in a dead tone of voice, head bowed and fist clenched so tightly at his knees that he was drawing blood. It was not the reason he felt like he was going to retch, but it would suffice for Robb. “When Father leaves, I’ll have no place here.”  

Jon did not have to see Robb’s face to know that he’d hurt him.

“Jon, Jon you can’t honestly believe that. I know that you and Mother have had… differences, but I want you here. You’ll always have a place in Winterfell, so long as there is a Stark.”

Jon could not help but smile wanly at that. It was an old phrase of their Father’s, and to hear it from Robb’s lips was to understand that despite looking like a Tully, Robb was every inch a Stark. He looked up. Seeing Robb’s expression, Jon almost agreed to stay.

There was a command there that he had seen on Ned Stark, Qhorin, Stannis. There was a reason that Father’s bannerlords had all declared for Robb and made him King of the North, and Jon realized now that this was it. But more than that, there was a fondness in those eyes that begged Jon to remember how they’d spent half their days together, and told him he was always welcome now.

But he could not stay. He had to prevent Father’s death. Their Father’s.

He reached over and clasped Robb’s hands in his own, giving them a gentle, reassuring squeeze, “Excuse me.”

And then he was up and out of the Hall before Robb could reply. Jon had no doubt it would be an angry one. But he wasn’t allowed to be swayed now.

He ambushed his father the first chance he got, pulling him aside by saying that he had urgent business. Father, who had been talking with Jory at the head of the courtyard, bemusedly waved the captain of his guard off.

“You left the dining hall rather abruptly yesterday,” Ned commented lightly. “Is something the matter?”

Jon felt genuine surprise at the statement, “You noticed?”

“Of course I did, Jon. You are my son.”

Jon could not help the flash of bitterness that swept across him. _Then why did you hide me away yesterday?_ He wanted to ask. But it was childish and not worthy of him. Jon had already experienced his Father’s death once, and he did not wish to squander this chance with arguments also.

“I want to go to King’s Landing,” Jon said bluntly.

The bemusement was quick to drain from Ned Stark’s face. He hesitated, “Jon, you know I would like nothing more than to take you but…”

_But you are a bastard. You would disgrace the halls._

“Please,” Jon breathed. “Please Father. I have a bad feeling about this journey.”

Ned only shook his head, smiling wanly as he ruffled Jon’s hair, “Have you been listening to Old Nan's stories with Bran again? I promise, everything will be alright.”

No, Jon thought. No, you’re going to die there.

He changed tracts.

“Lady Stark will not let me stay in Winterfell.”

“Robb…”

“—is not your lady wife, you know that.”

“I have discussed this with Catelyn. She’ll be accommodating.”

“But she’ll not want me.”

“You have no reason to be in King’s Landing.”

Jon paused. That was true. But he was never without an argument. “I’ll be a squire to one of the knights there—”

“…just so that you can be at King’s Landing?” Ned asked slowly. The look he gave Jon was severe, “You would dishonor both yourself and the knight.”

The boy of four-and-ten flinched.

Ned sighed, “Jon, I will be fine. We all will be fine. Robert is a personal friend of mine and will no doubt provide ample security. Besides that, I am taking our best swordsmen with me.”

“What does it hurt for me to go too, then?” Jon asked, unsure if he should be shamed or relieved that his father had understood the true reasoning behind his questions.

“They will be hard on you in King’s Landing.”

“Do you think I care? I can bear it.”

“I think you think you feel that you are prepared, but Jon, understand this. It is not that I doubt you, but whatever words Winterfell has said about you, they were at least aware that you were their lord’s son. King’s Landing will have no such check.”

There was no such thing. Ned couldn’t possibly expect Jon to believe that the barring was purely due to… what? The possibility of having his feelings hurt? “Why are you so against me going?”

Ned’s back was rigid from tension, “It simply serves no purpose for you to be there.”

There was only one answer then. Jon felt his fists clench at his sides.

“Are you ashamed of me?” Jon asked bitterly.

“No I—what, no!” Ned Stark stepped forward, and put two strong hands on Jon’s shoulders. His very grip commanded Jon to look up, and so he did. His Father’s face had never been more solemn, “You are my blood, remember that. I have never, and will never be ashamed of you,”

Jon’s mouth felt dry. Somehow it felt wrong to ruin this moment with more pleadings, and yet he had to try. “Then why will you not let me go to King’s Landing?”

Ned sighed, and pulled back.

“I said no Jon,” he said, gently but still firmly, “and that answer is final. Now act like the Stark you are and accept your duty.”

He was left without a way to reply. Father never listened to anything more when he used that tone. It was the tone that he used when deciding someone’s execution and brought the cool kiss of Ice to their necks. Any further argument would only lose him respect in his father’s eyes now.

For one clarifying moment, Jon thought he understood the frustration Stannis must have felt when dealing with him.

Father went then and Jon was left standing alone in the courtyard. He was sure he looked pathetic, because he’d never felt it more than he did now.

No, no, it wasn’t supposed to be like this. Why did Father not allow him to go if he were not ashamed as he said? Jon felt tears prickle at the corners of his eyes, although he knew it was unworthy of him to cry over something like this. But he could not allow Father to die and Arya to eventually come under the power of Bolton.

He swiped at his eyes, to wipe away the wetness that signalled his weakness for all the world to see. Jon took a breath. There was one more option still open to him. There was one other who could grant him leave for King’s Landing.

It felt dirty to do this rather than ask his father directly, but it was better to sully his honor than to allow the events at King’s Landing to unfold without trying to stop it.

Jon left the courtyard then to find Robert Baratheon.

The king was, surprisingly, quite hard to find.

He was in the dining hall, he was watching his son spar down in the practice yard, he was in his queen’s chambers.

The last one made Jon blush despite all that he’d done with Ygritte, much to the amusement of the men who told him.

“Mayhap you outta go in ‘ere anyway,” Cayn said with a wink, “I ‘ear that our Queen is ‘omething worth seein’ in ‘er natural self, even if the king irons yer eyes out afterwards.” 

“He’ll show up sooner or later,” Fat Tom said, taking pity on Jon, “there’s always supper too. He sits by your father doesn’t he? You can ask whatever you want of the king then.”

Jon didn’t have to heart to tell Fat Tom about his new seating arrangements for the duration of the king’s stay.

“Thanks,” he replied with a weak smile, before hurrying off to another section of the castle.

He rounded the corner in the exact moment another man did the same, and back to four-and-ten, Jon stood no chance. A oomph of surprise escaped him as Jon collided with a bigger, stouter body, and Jon nearly lost his balance.

A hand caught his arm and jerked him upright, giving Jon’s body equilibrium again.

“Well well,” Benjen Stark said in bemusement as he let go of the boy’s limb, “Someone’s going somewhere in a hurry. Lots of things to do in this castle I suppose, especially with the King’s family here. But I didn’t see you at the feast yesterday.”

For a moment all Jon could do was stare, mouth slightly agape.

Benjen Stark looked as he always did, sharp featured and gaunt as a mountain crag, but that ever present hint of laughter in his blue-grey eyes. He looked nothing like Jon had last seen him, stern faced and nothing except ill humor in his gaze, and that was only if Jon could even remember his uncle’s face at all.

It was only now that Jon vaguely recalled that the first time around, Uncle Ben had arrived in Winterfell sometime around when the King did.

Stupid, stupid, he berated himself, how could you forget about Uncle Ben?

But he had. Benjen had been dead for nearly two years before Jon had been given this opportunity, and Jon had moved on from him. He’d come to terms with his uncle’s death somewhere around his time with the wildings. Benjen hadn’t been with them, and while Jon had been determined to find him, neither was he naïve. 

Robb, Arya, Bran. Those deaths had been a harsh strike after Jon had made it back from Mance Ryder’s camp, but Benjen’s and Eddard Stark’s deaths had by then become a numbing pain. His lord father being alive had been evident from the beginning of this madness, when Jon chose to believe it, but he had completely forgotten about the people out of sight.

“Jon?” Benjen asked, his brows furrowing as a hint of concern entered his voice, “You alright son?”

 _I’m not your son,_ he had said last time. He suddenly remembered that with crystal clarity.

“Fine,” he swallowed. “I’m just—I haven’t seen you for a while.”

The smile Uncle Ben gave in reply was wry, “Well, Old Mormont likes to keep us busy up at the Wall. Here now though, and that’s what matters, eh?”

“Yeah,” Jon said thickly. Once again he felt guilt consume him. By choosing to go to King’s Landing, he was willfully abandoning Uncle Ben, even though he could change his death now.

He wanted more than anything to warn Uncle Ben and to tell him not to go out on that first patrol when he got back. But he’d sound mad, and while Jon knew that his uncle loved him, he also knew Benjen Stark well enough to know that the man would never believe him.

 _Do you think your brother’s war is more important than ours?!_ Mormont had asked of him.

No, Jon thought morosely. No it isn’t, but I can’t—I can’t abandon them again. I can’t. I’m not strong enough.

But there was one thing he could do.

“Actually Uncle Ben—if it’s possible, there’s something I want to ask you…”

“Oh,” the amused edge of Ben Stark’s voice was back, “and what pray tell, is that? Is it a girl? ‘Cause Jon, I’m sorry to say that I’ve taken my vows, and I can’t give you much advice on girls.”

Jon smiled in spite of himself. Uncle Ben was always able to make him feel better. But Jon couldn’t let himself be distracted this time.

The wall, the wall, the wall. The first thing Jon had done when he accepted that he might actually have gained a second chance was to write a letter for the wall. He’d been planning on sending it with one of Maester Luwin’s ravens, but this was better, wasn’t it?

He dug about in his pockets, and a moment later he brought out a sealed and folded letter. He looked at it for a long time before holding it out to Benjen.

“It’s a letter for Maester Aemon. I heard something about him from one of your other brothers. I just wanted…” The fourteen year old boy shrugged and looked away, as if embarrassed. Let Benjen think that Aemon too was a bastard from a noble house. “I wanted to ask him a few things, is all.”

For a moment Benjen looked hesitant, but then he nodded and took the letter, “Very well, I’ll deliver it to him.”

He wrote about the Others and the way to kill them. Fire and dragonglass. He wrote about the wildlings and their preparations for an eventual attack. And that the Night Watch should consider treating with them.

He’d even hinted towards Sam Tarly, being quick to warn against judging a character by a single trait such as their ability with swords. He wrote that with the Wall as it was, someone who began craven might still learn courage and be of great help to the stewards.

To seal it off and to assure that the letter would be taken seriously, Jon addressed it to Aemon Targaryen.

He prayed that it would be enough.

He and Uncle Ben talked about other, more inconsequential things for a while after that. Jon savored it. But then the time for the mid day meal rolled around and Jon remembered again that he had to find the king, and he bade farewell to Ben.

There were others he came across in his search. Robb in the courtyard who stoutly ignored him and Theon with him who traded a few barbs with him before Jon went on his way again. He saw Arya and Sansa too in their lessons. Ayra spied him in the open door and made a face, and Jon couldn’t help but grin back before departing from that wing of the castle as well.

He even spotted Bran sitting by himself with Summer at the far side of the castle. He had a bucket of water and a ragged cloth, as well as a bar of soap near him. There was no doubt he was trying to give his direwolf pup a wash.

“Hey Jon!” The copper haired boy of seven called out as he raised his hand in a wave, “Want to help me clean him?”

“Sorry Bran,” Jon replied with only the slightest hint of a fond smile dusting his lips, “but I—”

And the words froze on his tongue, as if the paralyzing ice of beyond-the-wall had somehow crept into Winterfell.

Bran.

He had fallen at around this time hadn’t he?

Jon felt his heart thudding in his throat.

“—’m not very good with cleaning animals,” the boy of four-and-ten changed dazedly, “although I promise I’ll try my best. Would you still have me?”

“Of course Jon!” Bran beamed, his entire face lighting up, “It’s not like I’m a master of the art either. We can learn together.”

Jon smiled gently and made his way over to Bran, settling down beside him and his direwolf pup. Bran held out a spare wash cloth to him and Jon took it with a wry shake of his head, “Let’s hope Summer feels the same way as you.”

“Summer?”

“O—oh.” Jon searched his mind. He couldn’t recall, but it was entirely possible that Bran hadn’t named his pup yet. He grinned sheepishly, “Sorry, his coat just reminded me of the season.”

“No, no.” Bran looked down at the direwolf in his lap, a soft smile on his face, “It does suit him. You’re right Jon. I think I will name him Summer.”

Jon watched as Bran gently began washing his direwolf pup, looking for all the world like the most tender hearted person in the entirety of Westeros. Jon had already decided to save his life this time, but what about the fall?

Bran had dreamt of knights, and even if he did not die at Winterfell, he would never be able to be much of anything without his legs.

Jon might be able to prevent that, too. Bran never fell. Jon was sure that the reason for it had to do with the King’s company. He could watch Bran until then, and when the King left, Bran would be safe again.

“Summer!” Bran laughed as the direwolf pup suddenly keened and shook its fur in displeasure, splashing him with beads of water. He leapt up, scowling at the little creature, “You behave. We’re only trying to help.”

Jon’s gaze followed his little brother. Even this Bran would not be able to do if he fell.

_But._

He knew how this worked. Robert Baratheon did not know him. His father had made sure of that. If Jon were to make a request out of nowhere, the king might consider it, but there was no way he would let Jon go to King’s Landing after his best friend would not tolerate it. Jon would need to ask the king in private, so that King Robert may make a promise then and be unable to take it back later, when his father protested. But to do that, he needed to spend all of his waking time in the king’s company, for the king was not left alone often.

And that meant leaving Bran.

He could not be constantly with them both.

“You should hold on to him,” Jon heard himself say. “Here, I’ll soap while you keep him still.”

“But he’s all wet,” Bran said doubtfully.

“You’re already wet,” Jon pointed out. “Might as well go all the way. Besides, this way you can bond with him more.”

“You’re right, aren’t you?” Bran laughed. With a grin on his face he leapt onto Summer and grappled with him until the wolf was still. Summer let out a whine. Bran only laughed more.

It was an impossible choice yet again. Ride with Robb or defend his sworn brothers? Be with Ygritte or do his duty? Become Lord of Winterfell or keep his vows? Save Arya or…

Jon closed his eyes, and chose.


	3. Chapter II

In the end Jon parted with his father and his half-siblings just as he had before, although this time it was not he who was leaving but them. The farewell was big, though no tears were shed. They were all too strong for that. Eddard Stark shared a private word with Lady Catelyn, while the guards who were staying made solemn promises with the guards who were going. The siblings all whispered their personal goodbyes.

Jon felt as if he were sending them off to their deaths.

He stood in his spot until the sun dipped low enough to taste the earth and the departing party could not be seen any longer, not even as dots on the horizon. Thankfully his morose mood was not noticed amongst the sobriety that had befallen the entirety of Winterfell.

The next day he found it hard to wake.

He had no purpose in Winterfell any longer. Previous his resolve had been in preventing Bran’s fall. He had done so, and Bran too had ridden off with the rest.  Jon wondered if it was a kindness or not.

He thought about ridding after them often. With a company as big as the king’s, they could not have gotten far yet, and he knew he could catch up to them. He could even ride the entire way to King’s Landing by himself, for all that mattered.

But he knew it’d come to nothing. Father would only send him back to Winterfell again. He still did not understand Father’s absolute refusal and it made him unsure about what would work. But Jon did know that if he were to go, he would have to find a pretext.

He spent his days doing nothing but wrack his brain for a solution and finding none. He had never been more frustrated in his life.

It was how Robb found him one morning, flipping listlessly through books on King’s Landing in the library. Jon was reading but scarcely absorbing the words. None of it pertained to what he needed to do.

Robb plopped down on the bench across from him, situating himself on the opposite side of the thin stretch of table.

“Wow Jon,” he grinned as he leaned forward to examine the book open in front of the dark haired boy, “that looks like _such_ a fascinating read.”

Jon did not even bother glancing up, “Robb.”

 Robb waited a moment, and when Jon did not say anything more, the red haired boy let out an impatient sigh and snatched the book from his fingers. Jon’s head jerked up just in time to see Robb hold the book as far back as he was able, well out of Jon’s reach.

Jon reached for it nonetheless, a frown on his face, “How childish are you?”

But Robb’s face was serious, “Jon, I’ve hardly seen you since Father left. Have you even been eating? You never attend meals anymore either.”

Did it matter? He had survived on less. When he had been Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch and rationing their food supply, he had partaken of one meal per day and it was often a bad one at that.

 He sighed, and sank back into his seat, “Fine, I’m start attending meals. Now can you give my book back?”

The lines on Robb’s face only deepened. His brows furrowed, “Not until you tell me what the matter is.”

Jon was tired. He didn’t want to think of a lie to tell Robb. “Don’t you have your duties as acting Lord of Winterfell?”

“I have my duties as a brother too.”

There was no hope, then. Robb was rather like his father in that regard. Once he had his mind set on something, nothing would shake him from his resolve. Jon’s lips quirked. That attribute was causing him more trouble than he would have cared to for.

“I’m fine, really. Just missing our family and burying myself in books as a result.”

“On the history of King’s Landing?” Robb asked incredulously.

Jon coloured. Ah, so Robb had read a few words from his text then.

“Look Jon,” Robb said as he set the book back down. Jon did not reach for it, as Robb surely predicted. There was no point to it, now. “I know you don’t want to be here with mum and Rickon and I.” The words were stuttering, an aching sort of pain in every syllable. “But Father’s decided to take Sansa and Arya and Bran and there’s nothing you or I can do about it. It’s not ideal, but you can’t—”

“Robb,” Jon interrupted softly. “Stop.”

Robb stopped.

“You’re impossible, you know?” Jon sighed, giving his brother a resigned sort of look.

“Am I?” Robb grinned, although it lacked his usual boisterous edge. It seemed sadder somehow, and Jon knew he was the cause. He hadn’t been careful enough. “Well good then. It seems like only the impossible sort can deal with you.”

Jon snorted. This time when they shared a smile, it felt like an actual smile.

“It’s really not about you,” Jon finally said, tracing a pattern on the wood in front of him. He had not wanted to reveal anything, but he should have known better than to try and keep everything from Robb. In a way Jon was relieved to finally share something with someone. It was not a luxury he had ever since he’d been voted as Lord Commander. “I’ve just heard some really bad things about King’s Landing, and I’m worried about Father. I have no doubt he’s more than capable of being a good Hand, but you know how he is. Too honorable by half. I’m afraid something’s going to happen to him.”

“And you want to be there to protect him,” Robb realized.

Jon exhaled, “Yeah.”

Robb pursed his lips. Quite suddenly he stood, grabbing onto Jon’s upper arm and tugging him along.

Jon nearly stumbled with the unexpected motion, “What are you doing?”

“What do you think? Come on.”

And then they were out of the library, through the hallways, across the courtyard, and into the shed which held the weapons.

“Are we even allowed in here?” Jon asked. They’d been caught in the armory once when they were boys of seven, and Ser Rodrik had not been painless about their punishment.

“I’m the acting lord of Winterfell now,” Robb replied as he gazed critically at the wall of blades on the far side. His fingers fell from his hold on Jon as he moved forward, and took up two of the swords displayed proudly in the armory. He offered one of them to Jon, hilt first, “Here.”

Jon took the blade. It was a two handed longsword. The edges gleamed sharp in the planes of sunlight that came trickling through the doorway.

 “What’s this?” Jon asked warily.

“Well you wanted to protect Father, right? How do you think you’ll be able to do so with your sword skills they way they are?”

Something warm settled in his chest. He was touched that Robb believed him so readily. Jon was not sure he would have if the situations were reversed. Still.

“That’s not—I mean—” Jon had never thought to protect Eddard Stark by the blade. It was treachery he was worried about.

But now that he thought about it, realistically, what could Jon do? He did not have the authority of the Night’s Watch under him this time, or even the respect associated to him by way of being Mormont’s steward. The only plus he had over the others in his father’s company was that he knew betrayal was coming, and would be extra attentive.

But even if he discovered something, who would listen? Father might have at one point, but not after Jon had ruined his own credibility with his desperation regarding Father’s safety. He’d messed up again.

Jon closed his eyes and mentally rearranged his words. When he opened his eyes again, his sword was up and the tip was pointed at Robb’s throat, “Let’s spar.”

It was late afternoon and the sun was still sitting in its heavenly throne, but the courtyard was empty. The master-of-arms Rodrick usually trained his recruits in early morning, and squires had better things to do during this time of day. Jon and Robb had the training ground to themselves.

The sharp hiss of steel filled the yard as Jon and Robb clanged against each other with real sharpened blades for the first ever time. Neither Father or Rodrick had let them use anything but tourney swords before, and the time previous, Jon had left before he could see Robb given the privilege.

It was a minute into the fight that Jon realized he maybe shouldn’t have agreed, because he had a huge advantage over Robb in two extra years of sword training at the Wall.

And then the spar became more heated, and Jon realized his ‘advantage’ wasn’t an advantage at all.

In fact, it hindered him more than anything else. Jon kept expecting a longer reach with a height that he no longer had and strength he had not yet built up, He’d sometimes noticed this when he reached for things, but never had it mattered so much as now. His fumbles made him clumsy, and the harder he tried to get a hold of them, the harder it seemed to do so.

Robb managed to defeat him in five minutes, something he had not been able to do in the past few years as Jon really came into swordplay. He bypassed Jon’s defences with a trick that Jon had seen coming but had been unable to defend against, and within instants Robb’s swordpoint was at Jon’s ear.

Robb grinned, and Jon swatted his brother’s steel away with his own. And then they were at it again.

It really was a good thing Robb decided to get him back into sparring again, Jon decided as he watched his longsword fly through the air for the second time as Robb disarmed him. If Jon had gotten into a real fight before realizing his old body’s limitations, he’d be dead a hundred times over. 

With a mocking bow to the victor, Jon walked over to his fallen sword and pulled it up once more. He turned to Robb. “Again.”

Robb’s eyes glittered with mischief, “Are you sure you can handle it, Snow?”

“Better,” Jon said shortly, “I’ll win.”

And then Jon charged him.

The ring of live steel filled the courtyard again as Jon and Robb went back and forth. Jon was nothing if not an adaptable swordsman, and after two rounds with his shorter reach and untried weapon, he had gotten an acceptable grasp if not familiarity. He wouldn’t last more than ten seconds against a skilled swordsman of course, but this was Robb and this was also Robb’s first time handling real weapons. With that, Jon was holding his own.

 _Still, if Mance Ryder could see me now he’d be weeping,_ Jon thought wryly, _and they’d be tears of laughter._

The third time seemed to be the turning point. Their stalemate broke when Robb lunged and Jon realized he’d seen the move before from Iron Emmet. He quickly sidestepped and snatched the upper part of Robb’s sword arm, preventing the other boy from bringing back his blade as the point of Jon’s came up against Robb’s stomach. If this were a real fight Jon would have skewered him right through.

“Yield,” he grinned cheekily.

His sword arm was shaking from the strain of holding up a longsword with one hand. The move had originally been invented for Longclaw, not a two handed weapon. If Robb were an enemy it’d be a messy kill, but a kill nonetheless.

“I yield, I yield,” Robb said quickly, his eyes dropping down to Jon’s point. Jon allowed his sword tip to drop with a sigh of relief. Robb didn’t look put out by the loss as he untangled himself, “I fear that if I didn’t say it fast enough you’d have speared me through anyway accidentally. Didn’t look like your arm could handle it anymore, eh?”

“Oh shut up,” Jon grumbled, and then they were at it again.

They had four more rounds after that, with even victories split to both sides. By the time they were done they were both spent and panting and the sun had dipped indecently close to the horizon. They’d collapsed beside each other after that, not having the energy to stay standing.

“So?” Robb asked after they’d both taken a moment to remember how to draw air into their lungs again. He popped up into an upright sitting position, a slow grin spreading from one ear to the next, “What did you think of using real steel?” He turned the blade by his side, an adoring expression on his face, “I think I’ve fallen in love with this longsword.”

“To be honest,” Jon chuckled breathlessly, “I think I’d rather have a bastard.”

Robb looked up at him sharply.

Jon grinned, and cuffed his brother playfully, “Oh come on, you don’t have to tense up every time the word is used. I think I’ve come to a startling revelation recently and won’t be offended by it anymore. Besides, I was referring to the sword.”

Robb’s mouth dropped open momentarily before it snapped closed again, a matching grin on his face. He put up a pretense of swatting Jon’s hand away, but Jon could tell by the glimmer in his eyes that Robb wasn’t really annoyed, “Sure sure Snow, make excuses for your losses.”

“Oh? Would you rather I win all our bouts next time?”

“As if you could!”

“Shall we see?”

Robb threw back his head and laughed, “Yes yes, of course Ser Aemon the Dragonknight. But first let’s have some supper shall we? I’m starved.”

Jon’s stomach grumbled in agreement. He picked himself off the floor and brushed off the dirt from his britches, “You may be right.”

“Of course I am,” Robb replied as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. He too roused himself from his seated position, though the first thing Robb did was to place the longsword he’d borrowed back where it belonged.

Jon followed him, “Oh, and one more thing.”

Robb turned to look at him, a half-impatient, half-curious look on his face, “Yeah?”

Jon smiled. He’d recognized the spar for what it was less than halfway through. He knew it to have been more of an effort to cheer him than anything else. Robb always pulled something like this when Lady Catelyn had been too harsh on Jon, or Theon was a particular dick on a given day.  “Thanks, Stark.”

There was something indescribably soft in Robb’s gaze as he replied, “Anytime, Snow.”

oOoOoOo

The days following their father’s departure somehow fell into routine. Jon took back to sparring every day as he had as Lord Commander, and sometimes Robb would join him. Sometimes he would join Robb for his lordly duties.

The first time it had happened had been quite accidental. With the captain of the guard and father’s best men having left with him, it temporarily fell to Rodrik to refill those spots. Jon had slowly but surely become familiarized with his body again, and with that his sword skills seemed to skyrocket. He had begun helping Rodrik with the new trainees.

It was during a training day when Rodrik asked Jon to request something of his brother, and Jon had been more than happy to oblige. He made his way easily to the solar, where Robb spent his time more often than not these days.

Robb was indeed there, but so was Lady Catelyn.

Jon froze in the doorway.

The two were standing with their foreheads nearly touching as they gazed down on some sprawl of papers before them, identical frowns on their faces. Jon took a step back, intending to come back some other time, but the floor beneath betrayed him and gave a loud echoing creek.

Robb’s and Lady Catelyn’s heads both snapped up. Lady Catelyn’s eyes narrowed into a glare. Robb’s face cleared. 

“Jon!” He greeted.

“You look busy,” Jon said carefully.

Robb nodded and waved Jon over, completely missing the subtle out Jon gave them. With a sigh the dark haired boy moved forward, knowing better than to cause a scene in front of the lady wife of Eddard Stark.

“The village of Ekos,” Robb said with a pained expression on his face as he tapped the pages on the table. “Their granary was recently ravaged by foxes and they’re worried about the upcoming winter. They’re asking Winterfell for help but…”

“...they’re under Lord Tallhart’s jurisdiction,” Lady Catelyn replied crispy. It was obvious that she hoped that the sooner they were done with the explanation, the sooner Jon would leave. “He would take it as an offence if Winterfell were to step in.”

“Lord Tallhard is apparently a prideful man and has sent Ekos some grain to take care of it himself. It will keep them through the winter,” Robb agreed, but it was obvious he wasn’t pleased. At Jon’s look he handed his brother a sheet of paper that had been sitting on his table. It was an account of what was sent.

Jon scanned the figures. It would indeed be enough for Ekos to ration through the winter, but they could not afford to lose any more grain, and there would definitely be some starved babes. It was true that this was the north, and Jon had dealt with much smaller numbers when trying to feed both the wildings and his black brothers, but it was not winter yet and Ekos had no reason to starve.

“It’s just, Jon, the villagers came all this way to beg for food. Am I to send them back with nothing?”

“They do not need anything more,” Lady Catelyn said shortly. “Robb, you are not a boy any longer. You cannot help everyone. Winterfell might require those storages for other villages in more need than Ekos.”

“Lady Catelyn is right,” Jon agreed. Robb sighed at the response and looked resigned, as if he had known the answer but was simply hoping to delay it. Jon smiled briefly, “But Robb, you’re also right.”

Robb looked at him, surprised.

“We can’t send the villagers back with nothing,” Jon said amiably as he set down the account paper. “They crossed a fair distance to travel to Winterfell and we’d lose Ekos’s allegiance if we turned them back with nothing but a few pretty words. Hey look—” He slid a map of the north from the tangle of papers and tapped Tallhard’s territory. “Ekos is close to forest, which is probably where the foxes came from. If there’s enough to ravage a whole granary, there’s enough to entice Tallhard. Don’t give them our grain, but give them trained men. They could help the villagers hunt the foxes and then they could either eat them or trade them for more grain.”

“Turn the problem into the solution,” Robb mulled, “Why had I not thought of that? It seems so obvious in hindsight.”

Lady Catelyn let out snort, “You had not thought of it Robb, because it is an idiotic plan. Lord Tallhard will never abide us bringing armed men into his territory, and especially not for a farce like that.”

Jon’s head jerked up. He felt something inside him freeze. No matter what he did, he could never please Lady Catelyn, and he would have thought that after all his experiences, he would have stopped trying. But there was still some traitorous part of him that wanted her approval beyond all else, and it was that part which was making him feel like a worm in this room.

Her disdainful glare nearly made him retract his statement and flee, leaving Robb’s affairs to himself. But the smallfolk.

“Lord Tallhard is a banner lord to Winterfell,” Jon said as a reminder, before shaking his head. “But there doesn’t need to be any offence to him. The huntsman will be _his_. Winterfell will be the one buying the foxes.”

There was a pause.

“That is a sound plan,” Lady Catelyn finally said begrudgingly. She turned to Robb, “But it will cost us. Foxes are not worth nearly as much grain as would be needed for Ekos.”

But Robb was already thinking about it, “Mum, look. It really probably is for the best. Ekos will love us for practically giving them grain, but Lord Tallhard’s pride won’t be smashed will it? We’ll do it Jon’s way. No—let me finish—” Lady Catelyn had opened her mouth to no doubt protest. “I’m not choosing his method because we’re boys and it’s more fun for me this way. It’s honestly the best way to help the smallfolk and it’s a bit more costly yes, but it won’t bankrupt our coffers. It’s the better option, you have to admit.”

Lady Catelyn’s eyes were as hard as sapphires, but she inclined her head nonetheless, “Very well.”

And that was that.

“I thought she was going to set a Faceless Man on me,” Jon confided later during dinner, his voice coming out a little unsteady despite himself. He’d stood against Stannis Baratheon, who had been the rightful king of the Iron Throne and had given him a thousand more times to be intimidated, yet it was still Lady Catelyn who shook him the most.

 “It was good advice,” Robb replied stubbornly as stabbed through a piece of fish. “And I should like to hear your opinion more often. We’ve had the same kinds of training. And mother—mother’s helpful but no matter what she says, she looks at me like a boy. I need—I want—”

For a moment Robb looked indescribably lost, and Jon was starkly reminded of the feelings he had but could not give words to when he’d been named as the Lord Commander.

And that was all it took for Jon to consent to dropping by every once in a while, Lady Catelyn and all.

Sharpening his sword skills again and helping Robb with his lordly duties were not the only things he did. Jon also continued his study of King’s Landing, although he was careful not to indulge in an obsessive quality. Robb had dragged him out once and Jon had to say that Robb was right. It had been unhealthy.

He played with Rickon whenever he was not with Lady Catelyn. The child was more than happy to see one of his brothers often at least.

The days continued in an idyllic fashion. His birthday passed with a small celebration and a prayer for the safety of their family. Jon never exactly forgot about his ultimate goal to be in King’s Landing, but his days were busy and sometimes he would forgo his trip to the library to tell Rickon a tale about the knights of old or to visit the village with Robb. He passed the months happier than he had been in a long time.

And then Tyrion Lannister came riding back into Winterfell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/n: We won't be seeing a lot of the North for a while, so I thought I should some scenes with Robb before Jon is off to King’s Landing. Also, does anyone want to explain Jon/Sansa to me? It seems to be popular on AO3 but they’ve never even really interacted and their personalities don’t really compliment each other.


	4. Chapter III

Tyrion Lannister was of an amiable mood the day he arrived back in Winterfell, making jokes which did not give much offence and actually giving Robb the respect he was due despite Robb’s age. He was well received by all but Lady Catelyn, who had seemed to develop a hate for dwarfs equal to the one she had for bastards. Nevertheless Tyrion was invited to sup with them, and share Winterfell’s hospitality for the night.

As a dinner guest he was humorous and sociable, often making the table laugh with his remarks. Rickon asked for stories of the Wall and after a couple rounds of wine the black brothers who had come with Tyrion were more than happy to oblige. The only ones who could not seem to join in the cheer were the grim faced Yoren and the stiff Lady Catelyn and Jon Snow.

It was an impossible task to cast away his own tensions. He could not stop thinking about what he had to do after dinner, and it made him quiet. He was a disquieting shadow at Robb’s right for the night. He really did try, but he could not bring himself to enjoy the company and listen to the conversation. He was too nervous. He knew he could not afford to botch it up again.

He stayed the entirety of the night despite wanting nothing more than to excuse himself at the earliest moment that was polite, watching in dismay as Tyrion drank more and more. Jon barely sipped at his glass. He knew he had to be completely sober for the conversation he was planning, though he had hoped that the Lannister would be as well.

When the dwarf finally decreed that he had enough and would be off to bed now, Jon was hasty in volunteering his services to escort the Lannister to his room. Robb gave him an odd look, but allowed it.

Tyrion appeared to be affable to the suggestion. When they turned the corner where the stone ate up the light and laughter from the feast, Jon debated the best way to word his request, but Tyrion beat him to it.

“I’d thought you and Lady Stark were trying to experiment to see if you could set fire to a dwarf with only your eyes,” the Lannister commented lightly. He was plodding in front of Jon, and it was impossible to make out his face. “I assure you that dwarfs are just like any other, and though we’re a bit on the short side, such magics is not possible even on us.”

“That’s not—” Jon began to protest, but quickly realized that the best way to lose control of this conversation was to go at Tyrion’s pace. He took a calming breath, “That’s not what I meant at all, ser.”

Tyrion raised a hand to flap it dismissively, “Oh I’m not a ser, though I thank you for the courtesy. Call me Tyrion, or The Dwarf. Everyone does.” And then he suddenly stopped, causing Jon to nearly bump into him. He jumped around, his expression fierce, “So what did you mean by it then?”

There was no point in putting it off. “I want to be your page.”

Tyrion’s eyes went wide. Something in his face smoothed, though he still looked suspicious, “You know, I think I should stop being surprised by the things you say. Why, boy?”

Jon had a fleeting thought of replying with words of bastards and worth. Hope for understanding and seeing a kindred spirit. It wouldn’t exactly be easy to convince Tyrion, but it would not be impossible. Best of all, it’d be half true. He’d brought Mance Ryder to his side with less to work on.

But he was sick of lies.

“My father is very honorable,” he finally replied, “but not everyone holds such a high code of ethics. I fear what will happen to him in King’s Landing, where he’ll be put at the center of games of lies and intrigue. Bastards on the other hand are supposed to be good at it. But he won’t bring me, so I’m asking you.”

There was a moment of silence after Jon’s proclamation. Tyrion had a strange gleam in his eyes, “Oh-ho, what an inordinate amount of trust you’re putting into little old me by telling me this.”

Jon smiled, “You have to first show trust to gain it.”

Tyrion let out a laugh at that, “Are you certain that it’s only your father who’s too honorable by half? This type of thinking will get you killed in King’s Landing, child.”

“But we are not in King’s Landing yet,” Jon replied firmly. Inwardly however his heart was beating erratically. He wondered if he had been wrong to give Tyrion as much as he had after all.

“And you haven’t spoken of your worries to anyone else in the King’s Company?” It only took one look at Jon for Tyrion to nod, “No, you haven’t. It’s just me then. How strange. Why exactly did you think that a powerless dwarf would help you when the chivalrous knights would not?”

Jon’s heart sped faster. It was hard to tell, but he thought he was finally getting through. He tried to keep the hopeful edge out of his voice, but he wasn’t sure if he was entirely successful, “Because you know what it is like to not have power. Same as me. You know what it’s like to want to protect your family nonetheless.”

“And you’ve no doubt thought of countless arguments about how this could benefit me personally if I should remain unmoved by this lovely speech.” Tyrion sighed, “Well, you’ve pegged me right as someone who does want to see what kind of trouble you would stir up.”

“I didn’t—”

“Oh save it,” Tyrion interrupted with an impatient wave of his hand. “We both know you did. Don’t worry, I admire it really.”

There was a moment of silence.

“Eddard Stark was never this conniving,” Tyrion finally said, a gleam in his eyes. “I suppose you got that from your mother. Well, I’d image that she had to be devious to make your father sully his honor.”

They’re words, just words, Jon told himself. And yet it was still a struggle not to punch the man. He nearly did anyway.

Tyrion let out a sigh. “Your intent showed on your expression. But you didn’t act on it. You have some measure of self control and the rest can be learned I suppose. Good job. You’ll need that in King’s Landing.”

“My Lord?” Jon asked with wide eyes, “That was a test?”

There was a wan smile on the dwarf’s face, “Well you’re quick witted at least. Be prepared. You’ll hear much worse things from my sister’s court. Are you sure you want to go?”

Jon took a breath, “I am sure.”

“Then may the seven gods help you, and help me for even considering assisting you on whatever scheme you’re planning.”

oOoOoOo

That night he dreamt of a long empty corridor, a castle, the tombs beneath. Flowers and gems, ice and fire. A bird that looked strange. Bran. Something about Bran. And then seeping coldness, a skeletal hand reaching out to him, to choke him…

Jon jerked up from his pillow, shuddering as he awoke. He drew deep breaths, hugging his knees to his chest as he curled onto himself, shivering. It took him more time than he would have liked to calm and realize that the nightmare was not real.

He could not fall asleep again. He did not want to.

His nerves felt as if they’ve been flayed.

Jon rose from his bed and put on his clothes. It still felt strange to him how few layers he had to pull over his arms and legs. At the Wall one had to don furs of all kind to keep the frostbite from gnawing off their fingers, but the warm heated stones of Winterfell allowed clothing common to even south of The Neck.

He suddenly could not stay still. Jittery, Jon hastened out of his rooms and into the castle proper.

The first rays of sunlight had yet to peek over the horizon. It was black out still. The days were getting shorter and as Father always said, winter was coming. He grabbed a torch, lit it, and used its soothing fire to both bring the flush of life to his limbs and to light his way.

He had no idea where he was going, save that he soon arrived at the top of the stairs twisting into the Stark Crypts. And by then it only seemed right to descend.

A small grey man was kneeling at the base of the farthest crypt.

“Maester Luwin?” Jon asked in surprise when he reached the bottom. The circle of his torch light met with the other’s, melting seamlessly into each other. “What are you doing here?”

“Ah, Jon,” the castle’s sole healer looked as stunned to see Jon here as Jon did him, but he was quick to recover. He nodded to the statue at the very end of the long line of them. It was the one of Lyanna Stark. “I am here to pay my respects. Today is her name day.”

Something indescribably sad had seeped into his voice then, and it dawned on Jon that this was also a grave. He’d become so accustomed to seeing the crypts as a sort of memorial for the Starks, but for people like Maester Luwin who knew the bodies buried beneath Winterfell as more than just statues, it must feel queer.

“Well,” Maester Luwin sighed, rising from his position on the ground and dusting off the lower half of his robes, “that is enough of that. We mustn’t dwell too much on the dead, hmm? It will do us no good. But tell me Jon, why are you here?”

“I—” Jon wasn’t sure what to say. He’d come here because of a nightmare? He was no longer a boy of six. “Tell me about Aunt Lyanna? It is her name day, and although we shouldn’t dwell on the dead, we should honor them. How else could we hear their advice from beyond their graves?”

He thought of Ygritte, and how she still whispered in his ear.

Luwin blinked. And then he chuckled. “Very well, Jon. That was well argued, so I will let you go for not answering my question this time.”

 Jon blushed.

“Lyanna was…” Luwin gained a faraway look in his eyes. “She was something else entirely. Your father loved her you know, as did Brandon and Benjen and Lord Rickard. Everyone who met her did. She had a fire within her that burned even on the coldest nights of the north, and she’d be the first to defend the helpless and the first to yell at you if you did something wrong. She was never afraid to speak her mind. A little she-wolf. I believe that’s what her father called her.”

Jon smiled sadly, “You don’t have to tell me she was loved. The way you talk about her tells me all I need to know. I wish I could have met her.”

Luwin chuckled, “I wish you could have met her too. She would have loved you, I am sure. I just wish…”

He trailed off. He did not need to continue. Jon knew what Luwin was trying to say.

“Yeah,” Jon agreed softly, and they left it at that. They simply stood for a moment together, looking upon the statue of the aunt that Jon would never meet.

Finally, Maester Luwin spoke again. His voice was quiet this time, as if the crypts were children he did not want to wake, “You know… I’ve been serving this family for a long time, and Lyanna was a wilful girl, much like your sister Arya. I can’t imagine she would have been taken without a struggle, yet not a single corner of her bedsheet had been ruffled the night that she disappeared.”

Jon gaped at him, “You’re saying that the Crown Prince and my aunt just what, ran off with each other?”

Luwin shrugged, “I am not saying one way or the other. The only people who know the truth of what happened I fear, are dead. I am simply stating that it was out of character for both Lyanna and Prince Rhaegar to have done what they are said to have done. Certainly Lyanna would not have liked to be portrayed as a helpless victim.”

Jon’s jaw clenched shut as he turned back to Lyanna’s statue. His eyes were hard. “That’s even worse then. They both should have known.”

“But how could they?” Luwin asked sadly. “Who could have guessed that Brandon Stark would go to King’s Landing demanding Rhaegar’s head, and who could have known that Aerys would kill both him and his father? I am not saying that they were right, but in some ways the war was long in coming. Aerys was mad, and sooner or later something would have ignited the biding inferno within him that set Westeros ablaze.”

“Was he truly that bad?” Jon asked, remembering the devastating raven after raven which had been sent to the Wall with news of the war. Jon felt sick just remember it, and he had not even been in the midst of the events. He thought, perhaps, that he would rather have a cruel king than a much crueler war.

Luwin’s smile was sad, “Worse, I’m afraid.”

Neither of them said anything for a while. Instead the two of them simply stood, down in the dark, reflecting.

Finally Jon spoke, “And Aunt Lyannna? Prince Rhaegar was already married wasn’t he? If she… if she really did go with Rhaegar of her own free will…”

He was not sure why he was so curious. Perhaps it was because she reminded him of Arya, and Jon had always been concerned about Arya. He wanted Lyanna to have justifiable reasons.

“Ah, but you are forgetting who Rhaegar was married _to_. Princess Elia Martell was a Dornish woman, and the Dornish had very different views regarding marriage. They often took to sharing the marriage bed.”

Jon blushed in spite of himself. He was no maid, but the thought of… more than one… He could not keep his face from flaming.

Maester Luwin seemed to notice his discomfort and changed the direction of the conversation with a note of amusement in his voice, “Anyhow, I cannot say whether Princess Elia knew of Rhaegar and Lyanna beforehand, but I do not think Prince Rhaegar was the type of man who would keep it from her. There is also the fact that Lyanna was kept in Dorne itself.”

“And what’s that story?” Jon quickly asked, hoping to get off the subject of Dornish women quickly.

Luwin shook his head sadly, “That I’m afraid, is one I do not know. Your father would never share it with me, and I did not see fit to pry. It was your aunt’s last hour you understand, and I would not bring back those memories for Eddard if I could help it. All I know is that he found her in Dorne, and brought her back to your ancestral burial grounds. It is enough for me.”

“Alright then,” Jon breathed. He stayed with Luwin a while longer paying his respects before he eventually rose to leave. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed down in the crypts, but by the time he climbed back up the stairs, it was light outside.

And then he remembered that he still had to tell the acting lord of Winterfell about his leaving.

Robb was in the solar as he always was these days. He had his back to the door, reading some paper or another as he stood hunched over the main desk.

Jon leaned against the doorway and just observed for a moment.

Sunlight poured through the windows and made his figure hazy to Jon. But Jon could still make out the strong shoulders and the quiet grace of the man before him. For a split second, he thought he saw it. He thought he saw what Robb must have looked like as the Warden of the North.

_He’ll do fine without me,_ he realized.

Jon cleared his throat, “Robb.”

His brother turned. His face lit up when he saw who his visitor was. It was a perfect match to the sun which clung to him. “Jon! Are you free?”

He couldn’t believe the urge which flooded him to say yes and let himself be pulled into helping Robb on his latest project. It was dizzyingly intense. It’d be so easy to stay here. As long as he kept Lady Catelyn from leaving and kidnapping Tyrion, he could prevent the war.

But that left too much to chance.

He pushed himself off the doorway and took a step forward. “I tried to find you yesterday after the feast.” The corner of his lip quirked. “But you were apparently too drunk to receive anyone.”

Robb flushed, “I wasn’t.”

Jon let out a laugh, “Sure you weren’t.”

“I really wasn’t! It was Marin who told you that wasn’t it? _He_ was the one who was dead drunk.” The young lord of Winterfell took a breath. “Besides, Mum would have never let me go that far when a guest is over.”

Jon’s smile slipped at the mention of Lady Catelyn.

“And what was up with you anyway?” Robb continued with a curious look at his darker counterpart, “You were really distant yesterday. More so than usual. I thought you liked the dwarf.”

“I do like Tyrion,” Jon replied carefully. Because now they were finally getting to the crux of the matter. He drummed his fingers against his knee. “In fact that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

Robb blinked, “Eh?”

“I’ve asked to accompany him to King’s Landing.” Jon swallowed, “And he’s accepted. We’re leaving today.”

There was a heartbeat of silence.

Jon watched as Robb’s face changed from shock to contemplation to realization. His brother was not stupid.

“This is about dad again isn’t it?” Robb sighed. “I’d thought that you’d stopped worrying about it.”

“Only because I didn’t think I could do anything about it,” Jon whispered. “But now Tyrion’s offered me a chance. And I can’t not take it. You know I can’t.”

“You can.” There was a glimmer of something which almost seemed pleading in Robb’s eyes. “Stay in Winterfell with me. Everyone’s already left, and if you go too I—”

“You’ll be a great Lord,” Jon interrupted softly. “You already are. You’re doing fine Robb, and you know I wouldn’t lie to you. Not about this.”

Robb took a breath. And then he closed his eyes, and Jon knew it’d been accepted.

When he opened his eyes again, there was a wry twist to his lips that was not amused at all, “Perhaps I shouldn’t have named the dwarf a guest. Not if he’s trying to poach you.”

Jon smiled briefly. He knew that Robb would understand.

His brother didn’t necessarily share Jon’s concerns regarding King’s Landing, but he understood Jon’s character well enough. And he was too kind to argue about Jon’s reasons. This was important to Jon, and that was all that mattered.

“I’ll be back as soon as I’m assured everything’s alright,” Jon said. “I won’t stay down there forever. I don’t think I’d like it in the South.”

“No.” This time when Robb’s mouth twitched upwards, it was more genuine. “I don’t think it suits you at all.”

The rest progressed into a discussion of when Jon was departing and what he would need. When the hour passed and Jon stated that Tyrion’s—or rather, the black brothers’ he was travelling with—deadline was fast approaching, Robb hurried Jon out of the solar.

It took another twenty minutes for everyone to actually get ready, and by that time Robb had gathered everyone to see them off.

Jon said his goodbyes to all the castellans with easy comradeship and lively banter. It was harder with the rest.

“So you’re scurrying to King’s Landing after Lord Stark, are you?” Theon Greyjoy sneered as he stepped up to Jon’s horse, “You do realize he probably doesn’t want a cockroach there, don’t you?”

It was custom to reply to insult with insult between them, but it was hard to summon up that kind of care for someone he hated so much. For the past few months Jon could literally not stay in the same room as Theon for five minutes without feeling the need to rip his head off.

Sometimes he wondered if he shouldn’t just, except there was no acceptable reason for him to skewer the ward from the Iron Islands and Jon would not use something like poison even for someone like Theon.  

“If you hurt anyone while I’m gone,” Jon said, his voice as cold as the Northern winds, “I will find you and yours and I will _destroy you_. That is a promise.”

Theon’s sneer faltered. But it was brief and soon it was back in full blow. “Well Snow, I’ll be sure to quake in terror every time I step on someone’s feelings.”

Jon didn’t bother to dignify that with a reply as he giddied his horse to move on. He’d said what he wanted.

Next was Lady Catelyn.

He was certain that she’d only come to see him off at Robb’s request. Or perhaps she’d come because wanted to make certain for herself that he was leaving. Either way he wished she hadn’t bothered, because he had no idea how to bid her farewell.

Jon was, and always would be, awkward around her.

“Please take care of them,” he whispered, remembering her last words to him in his previous set of memories. I wish it had been you.

Her eyes were no less cold this time as she met his gaze, “Of course I will. They are my children.”

And last, of course, was Robb.

They’d said their private goodbyes already. There wasn’t any reason to drag this one out.

“Take care,” Robb breathed.

Jon nodded, and then he turned his horse and joined Tyrion.

Tyrion only had two servants with him, and he and Jon rode a pace ahead of them. The four black brothers who had accompanied Tyrion rode in a separate formation altogether.

“They’re not very talkative,” Tyrion said with a roll of his eyes. He was grinning. “Wanna bet how long it’ll take me to crack them open?”

Jon just couldn’t get into the joking mood. Maybe it was saying goodbye despite desperately wanting to stay. Maybe it was seeing Winterfell disappear from sight again and the ominous feeling which lay ahead.

The dwarf let out a sigh, “And alas, just when I thought I was finally going to get a companion with a tongue.”

“Why are you helping me?” Jon asked.

Tyrion hummed. He was looking ahead, the noon day sun making his profile inscrutable. “I like broken things.”

“I’m not broken.”

Tyrion’s mismatched eyes were uncomfortably knowing as they swiveled back to him, “Aren’t you?”

Jon opened his mouth, and found that he could not answer.


	5. Chapter IV

Jon was silent for a long time.

Finally Tyrion seemed to have enough. “You’re not still sulking are you?”

“I’m not sulking.”

“Right, and I’m not a dwarf. Won’t my father be surprised?”

Jon couldn’t help but laugh.

Tyrion grinned, “There you go, not so hard is it? Much more fun to laugh than to brood.”

Things went back to normal after that. Jon and Tyrion had a pleasant journey down King’s Road. They chatted about anything and everything. Jon found it somehow fit the dwarf to be well versed in every subject Jon could think of, and Tyrion admitted that he hadn’t expected Jon to know as much as he did.

There was only another moment of silence when King’s Landing finally came into view. Jon had nearly stopped mid sentence as they climbed over a hill to be greeted with the sight of strong glittering walls and towers which reached to the heavens.

 “Impressive, isn’t it?” Tyrion asked, observing Jon’s expression.

“Yes,” Jon whispered. Despite all the sadness and horror he knew would happen in the city they were fast approaching, he couldn’t deny its glory. It was like the first time that he saw the Wall. One couldn’t help but be held speechless by its magnificence.

“The structure itself never really loses its glamour,” Tyrion mused. “Aegon the Conqueror really outdid himself. Now if only the people inside it were the same. Ah well, I suppose one can’t have everything.”

They entered the city with ease, though the residence of the king itself was far less unguarded. Despite being the Queen’s brother, the gatemen were slow to recognize Tyrion. The Black Brothers were admitted first, and it was only after an extensive check of Tyrion’s papers that the dwarf and his entourage were allowed into the Red Keep.

Jon frowned at the leisure movements of the guards. He saw Tyrion’s tension despite the airiness that the dwarf displayed, and vied to change the subject. By the time they reached the courtyard, most of the shorter man’s strain had eased.

 They were greeted at the entrance by Jaime Lannister, glittering gold in his magnificent armour as he stood in front of the doors. He had beside him a stablehand, there to take the horses no doubt.

“Tyrion,” he smiled, mouth stretching wide and showing off pearly white teeth. He opened his arms in a welcoming hug. “You’ve come back at last.”

Jon’s eyes darted to Tyrion. He fully expected a scoff at the exaggerated gesturing. Instead, what Jon saw was the dwarf’s first guileless smile. Tyrion had laughed and grinned before, but never had he showed such an innocent expression as he did then.

“Jaime,” Tyrion said, and although his own movements were not as large, there was a tone in his voice that spoke of quiet happiness.

Jaime moved forward to help Tyrion off his horse, and Tyrion did not object.

“Good to see that the North hasn’t frozen you of your appetite,” the Lion of Lannister grunted as he hoisted Tyrion off the mare. Green eyes flickered to Jon as the dwarf’s feet touched the ground. “In fact, it appears to have given you something instead.”

There was a suspicious note in Jaime’s voice. Tyrion was quick to dismiss it.

“Jon you mean? He’s my new aide,” Tyrion smiled with a wave of his hand. He moved forward, brushing past his brother. “Now it’s been a trying journey, and I’d like to hurry up with announcing myself so that I can go and get some rest.”

Jaime grinned, quick and sudden, “By ‘rest’, you mean visiting all the best whorehouses in King’s Landing, don’t you?”

“Oh please,” Tyrion snorted. He too looked amused. “No need to ruin my reputation quite so quickly with my new hand. But yes, you know me well. Jon, I won’t be needing you for this, so you have the rest of the day off. I recommend finding your father.”

And then Tyrion was gone, disappearing into the darkened halls of the Red Keep. Glion and Pat, his two other servers, were quick to follow after him. They had his supplies and would be setting up his rooms.

Jon dismounted and made to follow as well, but Jaime Lannister twisted his body and suddenly Jon had the Lion of Lannister blocking his path.

The dark haired boy looked up in surprise, having fully expected Jaime’s interest to have waned with the departure of his brother.

“Not so fast with you,” Jaime said with a sharp smile. He made a gesture at the stable boy, who moved over to take the reins from Jon. Seeing no reason to refuse, Jon gave them to him. The stablehand was quick to rush off with all the horses. “Tyrion gave you the day off, so you have some time to talk to me.”

“What is it you wish to speak with me about?” Jon asked evenly.

“Lord Stark didn’t show you off at Winterfell,” Jaime said with a cluck of his tongue, “but there’s no mistaking that grim face. You’re a Stark, aren’t you? So what exactly are you trying to do, becoming the aide of my brother?”

Jon actually blinked at that. And then he smiled. It was a sad smile. “I am no Stark.”

There was only a trace of bitterness in his voice now. He’d thought, that after all this time, he’d be over it. But how could he, when even the Lion of Lannister confused him for Eddard Stark’s trueborn son?

“Don’t lie to me,” Jaime scowled. “You’re the very image of the Lord of Winterfell. At least think of something more believable.”

“It is true. You may ask your brother. My name is Jon Snow.”

“Snow?” For a moment, Jaime looked confused. And then a small ‘ah’ escaped him and his face cleared. “The bastard, is it?”

Jon didn’t flinch. But it was a near thing. “Yes.”

Jaime only snorted. “And I suppose I’m supposed to believe that you’re with my brother because you… what? Want to become a knight?” Jaime’s sword glimmered under the sunlight as he drew it from his sheath. He turned it in his hand as he gazed down upon the shining metal with hooded eyes. “Do not be ridiculous.”

Iron glittered as Jaime’s sword flashed, and Jon’s eyes widened as he realized that this wasn’t going to be just a _talk_. But his instincts kicked in too late. His hand fell to his own waist for a hidden dagger as he stepped back… only to find the edge of Jaime’s blade against the side of his throat.

A small breath escaped him. Jon went utterly still.

“Lord Eddard Stark does not think well of us Lannisters.” Jaime hissed. “And Tyrion is hardly a knight. Why are you with him? What is it that you are planning?”

Jon’s head was forced up as Jaime pressed the blunt of his sword against the boy’s chin. He had no time to react. Despite his training, both in the not-future and with Robb, he was hardly able to take half a step back before the kingslayer had him.

But it was also hardly his fault. They were not in battle or even on the road. By all rights Jon had no reason to expect a sword. The attack had literally came out of nowhere.

Perhaps, Jon mused darkly, that is exactly what is dangerous _about_ King’s Landing.

And here was his first real test. It had to be divine irony that it would come from a Lannister. “If I told you I am not planning anything?”

“I would not believe you.”

“You know Eddard Stark. He wouldn’t do something as subversive as this.” Jon paused. “And he would not use his shame to do it.”

“And yet there is your presence here. Come now, I may not be the best known for my wits, but I’m hardly devoid of them.”

Jon searched Jaime’s face. Every reply the golden Lannister gave was jaunty, cheerful almost. It wouldn’t have sounded like an interrogation were it not for the sword at Jon’s throat and the hard eyes Jaime fixed him with.

“Why are you so certain,” Jon asked slowly, “that I do not simply enjoy Lord Tyrion’s company? And that’s why if I had to serve someone, it would be him?”

Jaime froze. Jon had found it. The reason. The weak point. He was not glad for it.

The grip on the sword’s handle tightened. Jaime gritted his teeth. “Why service at all, then? Eddard Stark is the type of man who would provide his sons with varied opportunities, bastards or not.”

He should have used an iron clad defense, perhaps. It was what the Starks were known for. Impenetrable walls of ice. But Jon was not full Stark. And he had always defended by attacking first.

“You of all people, should know,” Jon whispered. “You, who had Casterly Rock to inherit and chose a life barred from nearly everything.”

“It is the highest honor to serve in the Kingsguard.” Jaime said automatically. Yet even as the words passed between his lips, he had to know his error. His jaw worked.

Jon softened his voice. “I do not think it’s a dishonor to keep company with Lord Tyrion.”

The tip of Jaime’s sword slid from Jon’s neck. It did not even tear the slightest rip in Jon’s clothing on its way down. Such was the Lion of Lannister’s control over a blade even when his control over his mental facilities seemed to be at a low.

“You really think that, don’t you?” Jaime asked in amazement.

Jon met Jaime’s gaze steadily, “Am I wrong?”

He had to admit there was a part of him that was confused. He hadn’t expected anyone to take his insinuations so lightly, especially not Jaime Lannister. Jaime who had soiled the honor of the Kingsguard. Jaime whose very purpose for this interrogation was worry for his brother, and Jon had made it seem as if it were Jaime who were the one being unfair to Tyrion.

Jaime threw back his head, and laughed. There was not a trace of bitterness within. And that was what made chills go up Jon’s spine.

“I’m really not good at this motives thing,” he finally said, shaking his head in bemusement. “Words are more of Tyrion’s forte, but I suppose that’s why you’re with him, isn’t it? Or at least that’s what you’ll say.”

Jon opened his mouth to say something, only for Jaime to cut him off.

“No, no need,” Jaime dismissed easily. “I get it. And if you’re being honest—well, wouldn’t that be something?” He grinned then, sheathing his sword in one fluid motion. “Come to a tavern with me sometime. I’ll tell you some wonderful stories about dear brother mine.”

He brushed past Jon, ruffling the younger boy’s hair as he did so. A few more steps and he was nearly out of sight, despite his glittering armour. Jon could only stare after the retreating figure in shock.

 “Oh and,” Jaime called back as he raised a hand in a backwards wave, not bothering to pause. “If you ever hurt a hair on that little imp’s behind, rest assured I will find you and stick this sword of mine through your belly and make you regret ever even having considered lying to me.”

And then Jaime Lannister swept out of sight, leaving Jon standing alone at the doorway.

It took some time for Jon to pick his jaw up from the ground.

“You meet all kinds of people,” he murmured to himself, half bemused and half bewildered. It was obvious that from beginning to end, Jaime Lannister’s concern with Jon Snow was in regards to Jaime’s brother, but the rest of it was disorientating.

A hand rose to his hair as Jon lightly smoothed the tangled locks between his fingers. He had no idea what the friendly gesture and the invite to the tavern had been about. He had even less idea regarding how he should feel about it. Jaime’s equally carefree manner throughout the entire exchange, from threatening Jon to inviting him for a drink, was disturbing. Jon was not sure how much he liked men from whom he could not easily discern the natures of.

And then he shook his head. Because he did not need to think about this right now. Jaime Lannister was a concern only in the situation where Jon indeed wanted to be in Tyrion’s service as an end goal. But Jon only needed to be here long enough to prevent Eddard Stark’s death and the war that would follow. And then he could go back to Winterfell, the Wall even, and Jaime’s actions would matter little.

He took a breath. A family matter had just concluded. And now he would be faced with a much harder one. Steeling himself, Jon moved forward to find Lord Eddard Stark.

But the Hand of the King, as it turned out, was not so easily found. It was Father’s men that Jon saw first. And they expressed great surprise at seeing him there.

“Really glad to see you here though, Jon,” Jory said happily. “But if you’re looking for Lord Stark, he’s still at a meeting in Small Council. He’ll be out in a few hours, I think. Want me to show you around until then?”

Jon thought about denying it, because he didn’t want to bother Father’s guards. But then he realized that he might need to know the Red Keep’s layout, and he nodded in acceptance.

Jory grinned and split off from the others with a wave. He’d always been around to show Jon interesting tricks. In the other time, Jon had been devastated to learn of his death.

They chattered easily, each telling each other tales of their journey from Winterfell. A few places that they’d passed, Jon took special note of, such as the closed doors that was the entrance to the Council room, the directions to the Great Hall, and Father’s new solar.

Jon was surprised to learn that all of the dire wolves which had come with the Stark children were now apparently absent.

“They’re gone?” He asked in shock. “All three of them?”

He still woke sometimes, in the middle of the night, thinking about Ghost’s sacrifice and silently apologizing for it. He could not imagine being forced to separate from his white friend by humans, though.

“Aye,” Jory said with a nod.  “And I don’t know if it be luck or not that all of them escaped. Summer saved Lady from the blade, though the Hound got a bad scar from it. Even us of the North were a bit afraid to approach the wolves then, and to tell you the truth, none of us really wanted to evoke the wrath of the gods. They used the confusion to high tail it out of there.”

“I think, I think they’re really important,” Jon said as he kneaded his temple. “I’m glad none of them were harmed.”

“Might be,” Jory nodded. “I thought the reasoning for their execution was a little flimsy anyway. But, well, you’ll have to ask your siblings about that. They kept the thing pretty close and certainly didn’t share any details with little ‘ld me.”

“They probably didn’t want to burden you, Jory,” Jon smiled.

“Ha, tell me about it!” Jory snorted. “Now, actually, tell me more about why you’ve decided to saddle up with a Lannister. Nothing against ‘em really, but the dwarf?”

They chatted for a little while more before coming across an open doorway and the din of clanking wood. Jon and Jory shared a grin, easily recognizing the sounds of beginner level sword practice. They glanced in as they passed, only for Jon’s eyes to widen as he realized he recognized one of the fencers. 

“Arya?” Jon asked in surprise.

Arya, who was being completely whipped by a much older man in blue, whirled at the sound of her name. Her own eyes went huge upon seeing her brother.

“Jon!” She exclaimed happily, leaping towards them in a sudden burst of speed. Jon barely had time to catch her as she barreled into him, nearly knocking the both of them over. He stumbled nonetheless.

She buried her face in his shoulder. He smiled slowly. “Hello, little sister.”

Arya looked up. Thin, slender hands pressed against his cheeks, feeling his features. “Are you real? Are you really here?”

With a laugh, he grabbed her hands, giving a small nod. “Yes, I am. I’ve missed you too.”

Arya giggled, finally disentangling herself as she rocked back on her heels. “Alright, only the real Jon would be able to read my mind.” Her eyes were sparkling. “How are you here? Did Father change his mind and call for you?”

“Hmm, it’s a long story,” Jon laughed. Grey eyes flickered up to the unknown man at the other side. Now that Jon had gotten over his surprise at seeing Arya here, he could make a fair guess of who the other was. A note of bemusement entered his voice. “And it seems like I’m not the only one with stories. You’ve found someone to practice swords with after all?”

“Much better!” Arya chirped. She took a few steps back and turned to the short man, giving a slight bow. “Jon, meet Syrio Forel. A first sword of Braavos and my swordsmanship instructor.”

The dark skinned man—Syrio—let out a laugh at that. It sounded of rippling waterfalls. “It is just so. And this boy, I presume, is your brother?” Sharp brown eyes slid to Jon then. “It is a pleasure.”

“A swordsmanship instructor?” Jon asked in surprise. And then he realized how rude that was and quickly bowed in reply. “The pleasure is mine.” A grin hovered across his lips. “I take it that my little sister has been an energetic student?”

“Jon!” Arya admonished, but she was laughing.

“And I take it that the tour is over?” Jory added with a smile, scratching his cheek. “I should leave you two to catch up.”

“Perhaps not,” Jon said. He did want to exchange stories with Arya, but— “We shouldn’t hold up Master Syrio. He is here to teach Arya, and I can’t take that time.”

Arya’s jaw dropped. “What? But no! I’ve just gotten to see you, you can’t possibly want to leave yet!” Quickly she turned to Syrio. “He can stay to watch, can’t he?” Quick as a whip, her head swirled back to Jon. “You do want to watch, don’t you?”

“Of course he may stay,” Syrio agreed amiably.

Jon’s mouth opened and closed. And then, he nodded, barely suppressing a laugh. He exchanged a glance with Jory, who gave a wink and a wave before turning his heel to walk back the way they had come.

Arya darted forward and grabbed onto Jon’s hand. Her grip was tight, as if she was worried he’d suddenly disappear on her. “Oh Jon you’ll be so amazed! Syrio’s amazing! And I’ve improved a lot. I mean I’m not as good as you or Robb yet, but you’ll see! I’m really glad that you’re in King’s Landing. It was so boring but it’ll be a lot better now that you’re here. There’s so many things I want to tell you, Jon.”

But first there was Arya’s swords practice.

Jon took a seat at the terrace as Syrio and Arya took up their respective stances again. Jon was not exactly sure what he was expecting. Pride as Arya showed off her skill, perhaps. He hadn’t just been courteous when he’d nodded to wanting to watch Arya fight—he genuinely did want to see how much his little sister had learned. He had not been expecting to be struck utterly speechless by the Braavosi style of fighting.

He was no stranger to forms of fighting that were not the textbook styles of knighthood. Mance Ryder and the other Wildings had certainly taught him that. But neither had he truly seen any Eastern styles of battle until now. Watching it, and reading about it, he realized, were entirely different things.

The practice was mesmerizing. Syrio moved with a light-footedness that was reminiscent of the ever elusive snowflakes, and even Jon could tell that every strike he made was done with fluid precision.

When Arya’s sword finally dropped from her hand out of sheer exhaustion, Jon was up and clapping.

Arya turned a faint glare on him, “No need to mock, dear brother.”

“No mocking, no mocking.” Jon said. The smile that split his face was all the proof that was needed. “That was amazing. Sorry, I couldn’t hold myself back. If I’m not careful you really will catch up to me and Robb some day.”

Now it was Arya’s turn for a smile to split her face. “Really? You really think so?”

Jon nodded. “Of course, little sister. You’re not quite there yet, but I can already see the hints of Master Syrio’s training peeking through. This style is really right for you. It turns your natural nimbleness into graceful deadliness.”

“You’re the one who picked it out for me,” Arya replied with a grin. “The blade you gave me.”

Syrio blinked. He tilted his head to Jon then, a curious tone in his otherwise flat features. “You were the one who was able to discern that the Braavosi style would be best for her?”

“I had read about the Braavosi style of fighting.” Jon acquiesced. “It seemed to suit Arya best. I didn’t know if it really would be the right choice though—I hadn’t realized that seeing it in action would be so different. Thank you for showing me, today.”

“Hmm.”

“Showing you?” Arya groaned. “You mean you got to watch me get pounded. You should try _experiencing_ —” Grey eyes widened. Arya’s head whipped towards Syrio. “Hey! Can you—I mean, is it possible for Jon to learn from you too?” Turning back to Jon, she lowered her voice, as if Syrio wouldn’t be able to hear despite standing only a few feet away. “He’s really good. And it’d be so fun to have lessons together!”

Jon flushed.

“Arya,” he hissed back, caught up in the moment and also forgetting that Syrio was perfectly able to hear them. “You can’t just volunteer your teacher like that. He’s here for you, not me.”

“And yet,” Syrio said, bemused, snapping both Stark children out of their whispered debate. “A first sword of Braavosi is interested. I will listen to your request, girl.”

He stepped forward then, kicking up Arya’s fallen sword with the toe of his shoe and flicking it towards Jon. Jon caught it in one hand.

And then, without warning, Syrio was upon him. Jon didn’t have time to do anything but react. Syrio poked towards his midriff, and Jon’s arm moved in a parry. The point nearly broke through anyway, as the wooden Braavosi blade was a huge change from the longswords that Jon was used to.

The water dancer’s eyes glittered as he withdrew his blade, and aimed to attack again. With a small moment to collect himself, Jon drew in a breath. He quickly adjusted his grip on the wooden implement. He had half a mind to stop the older man, but the rest of him knew that he could do no such thing. He’d watched the first sword of Braavosi fight and he’d desperately wanted to test it. Even if this were an uneven fight, as it were, he wanted to try.

Still, it was ultimately a futile effort, and when Syrio finally skimmed lightly back, Jon had still yet to land a single hit on the water dancer. Instead, he was fully out of breath, more exhausted from that little exchange than fighting one on three under Alliser Thorne’s guidance.

“That—huff—looks like I still have a long ways to go,” Jon laughed.

Syrio eyed his body contemplatively, “You are not a water dancer.”

“What?” Arya called out in dismay.

“It’s alright, little sister,” Jon grinned at her. “I didn’t expect myself to. This spar was enough.”

“You do not have the build, and you already have other habits of other masters,” the Braavosi continued, “but Syrio can teach you refinement of a water dancer, oh yes he can.”

Jon’s head whipped back to Syrio in surprise. When Syrio had attacked him, Jon had expected advice. But to think that the water dancer would offer something as gracious as lessons… Jon bowed deeply, touched. “Thank you.”

“Yes!” Arya shouted as she jumped to her feet. She leapt forward and wrapped her arms around Syrio’s legs, “Thank you thank you thank you!”

The Braavosi only smiled. “No need to thank a man. A man is happy to gain good students too.”

They practiced for a little while longer before they were interrupted by a knock at the doorway. They turned as one towards the entrance, because the door had remained opened. It was a single figure, leaning against the doorframe stiffly, face utterly blank.

“Jon,” Lord Eddard Stark said, his voice as frosty as the Northern winds. “I would like to speak to you.”

Jon, who had been sparring with Arya under Syrio’s watchful eye, quietly gave his sister his practice sword. The reunion with Arya and Syrio’s subsequent offer had been a pleasant surprise, but it would all be an uphill battle from here.


	6. Chapter V

Ned Stark was silent as he led Jon down the halls of the Red Keep. Jon followed his father’s lead. He knew better than to start this conversation in the hallways.

Eventually they reached Lord Eddard’s solar. The lord of Winterfell paused at the doorway and inclined his head for Jon to enter, and the boy did so. Lord Eddard stepped in behind him, closing the door and turning to lock it. And then, Ned stopped moving entirely.

For a long moment Lord Eddard simply stood there, his hand still on the doorknob, back to Jon. When he finally turned around, there was not a trace of the calm that the lord of Winterfell usually commanded.

“Jon.” The name was said lowly, and anger wrapped around every syllable. Lord Eddard’s face of neutrality was smashed. He looked furious, more furious than Jon had ever seen him. “What are you _doing_ here?”

Jon had his reasons and he knew they were just. He had resolved himself. Yet here, listening to his father take this tone of voice, he couldn’t help but feel as if he were a boy of six who had been caught in some wrongdoing with Robb again.

He swallowed. And then he straightened his shoulders, steeling himself. “Lord Tyrion Lannister has accepted me as his aide. Since he is currently in King’s Landing, so am I.”

Father’s eyes flashed. “You would—” He took a breath. When he spoke again the anger was veiled, but that was more dangerous. “Do you expect me to believe, Jon, that you coincidentally became a Lannister’s attendant and ended up in the Red Keep just weeks after you expressed your worries about King’s Landing?”

Jon’s jaw worked. “No.”

“Then you are truly here because you think you can somehow guard me against some shadowy plot that apparently no one else can see.” Ned’s mouth twisted. “You mean well Jon, but this was _stupid_.”

Jon drew in a sharp breath.

He could count on one hand the number of times Ned Stark had used that word on his children. Ned was a tolerant parent, usually finding humor where the Lady Catelyn found fault. The instances where Ned Stark had truly been mad had all been cases where his children had really been stupid, such as the time when Jon had scalded a cliff he knew he wouldn’t be able to handle because of some dare or some other from Theon. He’d fallen like he knew he would and had broken his leg then, and perhaps more were it not for the winter snow which cushioned him. Afterwards, when Father had scolded him, Jon had readily agreed that it was a fool’s thing to do and that he’d never risk his life for something so petty again.

But _this_ , this was not petty in the least.

Jon felt himself becoming agitated too, although he told himself not to. “Why is it stupid? I’ve been reading up on the history of King’s Landing, you know, and there’s a disproportionate amount of deaths that happen here! Why is it stupid of me to worry? Why is it foolish of me to wish to make sure of my father’s health for myself?”

“You deliberately disobeyed me!”

“And so? This is my life, and my choice! I did not come with you, as you’ve asked. I’ve come another way.”

“Which is even worse,” Ned growled. “You knew what was right and wrong and you chose a cowardly way of circumventing circumstances.”

Jon felt his pride sting at that one. He stiffened. “Right and wrong. What exactly is so wrong about my actions?”

“You’ve made a fool of Lord Tyrion! He may be a Lannister but even he—”

“I’m so tired of it!” Jon couldn’t believe this. First Jaime, then Jory, and now even Father. “What’s wrong with Tyrion being a Lannister? We’re not even really Lannisters or Starks. He’s a dwarf who’s hated by his father and I’m a bastard who can never inherit. Even if it weren’t for this, I think I would have preferred serving him over anyone else.”

Something akin to surprise flickered across Ned’s eyes, quickly followed by pain. “Jon I—you know I would never begrudge you your choices. And you are my blood.”

“It doesn’t change what else I am, does it?” Jon asked bitingly. And then he shook his head. No, he was getting off topic. “Anyway, this discussion isn’t about that. I don’t mind that, not really. Look, Lord Tyrion knows and has agreed to all of this, so I’m not dishonoring him.”

Now surprise was plain on Ned’s face. “He knows? And he’s really…?” Ned sighed, shaking his head. He exhaled, and it was as if he was expelling all his fury with it. “Perhaps I owe you an apology for that one.”

Jon’s annoyance flickered out. Instead, he now felt embarrassed. Of course Father was not the pompous kind. If Jon had just explained it clearly from the beginning, he was certain Ned Stark would have understood.

“I’m sorry too,” he said quietly.

Ned’s expression was wry. “Do you think your father so incompetent that he can’t defend against whatever threats may come?”

Jon thought of daggers in the dark. Melisandre’s warnings. “No. But I think it can be hard to see enemies sometimes when all you want is a friend.” He took a breath. “It can’t possibly hurt to have an extra pair of eyes, can it? Even if it’s just a fool, bastard child. And it changes nothing for you if I’m wrong. I’ll be gone before you even know it. So can’t you just let me stay a while?”

Ned’s gaze softened. Finally he stepped forward, placing a gentle hand on the shorter boy’s head.

 “Oh Jon,” Ned whispered, “I do not think you are a fool. You have more sense than most men here.” He sighed. “Very well, since you’ve argued it so convincingly. And since you’ve already made the journey and it would make me feel guilty to force Lord Tyrion to be rid of such an able aide. You may stay.” 

Jon’s lips parted, but he could get no words past his throat. It was much too tight.

That night, Jon was invited to dinner with the rest. He was surprised that his father apparently kept up his tradition of dining with family even in the Red Keep, but when he thought about it, he realized he really shouldn’t have been.

Bran was elated to see him, and they exchanged a few happy words of greeting. Sansa expressed surprise at seeing him but welcomed him cordially. The guards had already seen him and he made no difference to the servants. Arya was quick to snatch a seat by his side and grill him about Father’s earlier intervention in low tones. 

Never one to keep things from Arya, Jon told her the gist of it.

“You’re kidding!” Arya gasped. Shock permeated her being, yet her voice was still scarcely above a whisper. Years of exchanging secret jibes had taught them both how to be quiet no matter what was said. “You think that there’s someone out to get Father here?”

Jon nodded. “It’s only a feeling, but a strong one.”

Arya was only nine, but she was also fiercely independent. Septa Mordane often told Arya a cleaner version of events in history for fear of giving the girl nightmares. Arya often went and asked Jon for the real account afterwards. He had no worries about telling her the truth of what he suspected.

“I bet it’s Joffrey,” Arya scowled. A dark look passed across her face then. “He was going to kill the direwolves you found us, did you know? Oh Jon there’s so much that you’ve missed!”

Her voice rose then. It caught Sansa’s attention and suddenly both she and Jeyne were involved in the following depiction of what had transpired on the Starks’ way to King’s Landing. There was a loud row about Joffrey somewhere in the middle of the story wherein their Father had to step in to stop.

Under the table, Jon took Arya’s hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. Her account of what had happened to Mycah had been sketchy at best, the name mostly thrown in between insults of Joffrey and the Hound. But Jon could readily make a guess.

It made him angry that the royal family could do such a thing. Unlike Arya he knew well enough that the Hound wouldn’t have dared kill someone of the king’s entourage without permission. But Father was right in expressing that there was little that they could do.

“Perhaps we should change the dinner topic before somebody speaks treason in the seat of the king itself,” Ned said dryly. He turned to Jon then. “Why don’t you tell us of your journey here?”

The anger was lifting from Arya’s visage, leaving only regret in its wake. And so Jon agreed and talked of Winterfell instead. He spoke of Robb and Rickon and even a bit of Lady Catelyn. And then he shared some of the Tyrion’s more amusing travel stories. It even managed to wrangle a laugh out of Father. By the end, Arya seemed much better.

“You did arrive just in time, Jon,” Sansa commented as dinner was nearing an end. “The King’s holding a tourney in honor of our father, did you know?”

Ned grimaced, “I would really rather he didn’t.”

Jon did know. He had even heard of the Hand’s Tourney back at the Wall, though the specifics escaped him.

Bran perked up at that. “I heard that all the best knights are going to be there.”

Sansa beamed at her little brother, “Isn’t it great?”

And it was just then that Jon realized this was the first time that Bran had spoken throughout all of dinner, save for the greeting at the beginning. Bran was not a rowdy child, but he was a curious one, and it was strange that he’d only chosen to ask a question now. And he’d contributed nothing to Arya’s and Sansa’s fight either, despite the fact that he too had to give up his direwolf.

Jon’s lips parted for a question, but then Sansa cut in with dreamy narratives of the visiting knights which Father then corrected in bemusement. Jon was momentarily distracted. Because even he could be drawn in by heroic tales and the thoughts of witnessing the best swordplay the realm of offer. But, even as he was, he realized it was probably a good thing he was interrupted. Asking Bran so bluntly at the dinner table would not be a kindness.

He would seek out his suspiciously melancholic brother later.

Except that Bran left straight after dinner, and then Arya appropriated Jon’s attentions to speak more about King’s Landing without ‘stupid Sansa butting in’. By the time they’d finished with their private reunion, night was upon them.

And the next day Tyrion called upon him.

“We need to keep up appearances after all,” the Lannister dwarf said bemusedly as he showed Jon around. “And also, you do have quite an able mind and body, so I might as well make use of that. Think of it as my repayment.”

Tyrion’s tour was vastly different from Jory’s. Where Father’s guard had showed Jon the different locations of the castle, Tyrion showed Jon the people.

“That’s Renly Baratheon, Master of Laws, though I don’t really know why. He doesn’t make creative ones nor does he really enforce them that well. But he does play a good court game and it’s easy for him to get you to like him. If he wants to that is. He hasn’t tried yet with dear old me.”

“He’s called The Spider, yes with a capital T. Knows too much for even me to be comfortable with, that Varys. He’s our dear Master of Whisperers and I should be glad he’s on our side I suppose, except I don’t know if he’s really.”

“That’s Petyr Baelish, Master of Coin. Clever little bastard and yes I mean every word—of low birth but extremely versatile. Apparently he can make gold appear out of thin air, and even I don’t know how he does it.”

“Lord Commander Barristan the Bold. Well I’m sure you’ve heard of him, but as a political ally he’s finicky at best. Too honest and too much honor. I suppose your lord father would find a friend in him.”

“That one’s our Grand Maester, Pycelle. He’s a weak soul but he’s deep in the pockets of mine sister dear, which makes him dangerous.”

“Stannis Baratheon, our dear Master of Ships, is missing for some reason that I’ve yet to discern. I probably should care, but honestly I’m just glad to see him gone. He’s a bit of an old fart.”

By the time Tyrion’s business was over it was late afternoon. A part of Jon wanted to stay longer.

The rest of him bade Tyrion goodbye and went to search for Bran as he’d promised himself.

He found the young boy hiding on one of the windowsills.  

Bran didn’t appear to notice him approach. The smaller boy had his knees drawn up to his chest as he stared forlornly outside.

“Bran,” Jon said softly as he stepped up to the unclouded glass. Bran started slightly, but when he saw that it was only Jon, he relaxed. “I’m the last person who’d tell you not to take some time for yourself, but if anything’s bothering you, you know we’re here for you, right?”

The smaller boy tensed. “Why do you think something’s bothering me?”

“Can’t I say it’s my intuition as your brother?” Jon smiled faintly. He did not say more, waiting for Bran to fill in the gaps.

There was a long stretch of silence. And then—

“I’ve always loved Winterfell,” Bran whispered. “But I wanted to travel too. And King’s Landing is great and I _should_ be having fun here but— oh Jon I wish you could have been there.”

A fine film of tears had welled up in Bran’s eyes, and Bran ducked his head to hide it. But there was no hiding the sniffle that travelled through his body.

“Bran…” Jon placed a hand on the younger boy’s shoulder. “It’s alright to miss Winterfell.”

But that only caused Bran to stiffen. His head whipped up, and there was sudden anger in his voice. “It’s not about that! Not even Winterfell now—I don’t belong even in Winterfell as I am now!”

And then, as quickly as his sudden anger had come, he deflated. His shoulders slumped, and he mumbled something inaudible under his breath.

Jon hesitated. “Bran…?”

Something resembling fear passed over Bran’s features, and without warning he pushed off the sill and darted past Jon. Before Jon could do so much as call his name, Bran had disappeared down the hallways.

He left Jon standing there, staring after his younger brother with his mouth agape, unsure of what exactly had just transpired.

“Well, well.” Now it was time for Jon’s reprieve to be interrupted as someone gave unexpected voice. Jon turned to see a bald man with a hanging belly and silken dress step out of the shadows. He had not heard the man approach at all. “That went well.”

Jon stiffened, “Were you eavesdropping?”

The Spider tsked, “Such an unpleasant word. I was simply passing through when I heard raised voices. And I came here to see what the commotion was all about.”

At another time, Jon might have flushed in embarrassment. That was a time before he had sparred with kings and taken the head of a lord for disagreeing with him. He remembered well what Tyrion had warned, and he did not think for one second that the motives of the Master of Whisperers were quite so innocent.

“Have you sufficiently figured it out then?” Jon asked flatly. In some other situation he might have been more careful, but he was not pleased with someone seeing Bran in a vulnerable moment he was sure the boy hadn’t meant to show anyone. “I’ll give my apologies for the accusation. It was wrong of me to say it like that.”

“But not wrong for saying it at all, is it?” The Spider mused. “And yes, I think have a grasp of what happened even from the tail end of that conversation. I could find out what’s wrong with him, if you’d like. As a welcoming gift for you.”

Jon did not even ask how the other knew he’d just arrived. “No, it’s quite alright. I’d prefer to find out from my brother myself.”

The bald man looked bemused, “Tryion has told you about me, hasn’t he?”

Jon did not deny it. But neither did he acknowledge it outright. “Tyrion has commentary about a lot of people.”

“Oh ho.” The bald man’s lips quirked. “It looks like Tyrion has chosen the right companion after all.”

“I think you for your blessing, my lord,” Jon said with a slight bow.

“Oh no, I am no lord,” the Master of Whisperers said with a wave of his hand. “Just a eunuch who’s gotten lucky enough to be in the king’s service.”

He said it airily, with no guile or shame. Jon felt surprise flicker through him. At the Wall, everyone eventually came to accept themselves and others, but it was a different case for the rest of Westeros. Eunuchs especially were looked down upon. And yet Varys advertised it so easily.

“I doubt luck had much to do with it at all,” Jon said as he smoothed out of his bow.

“Do you disapprove?”

“Your office requires secrets and rumors.” Jon said flatly. “I would be concerned for the realm if our Master of Whisperers were honest.”

“Such a different answer from your father!” Varys laughed. Jon did not appreciate it. “Is that why you came with a Lannister? After all, your two houses together isn’t something you see every day.”

One would think that the Starks and the Lannisters had a blood feud, with the way people were talking. There was no such thing.

“My sister Sansa is to marry Joffrey,” Jon pointed out. He could have remarked that he was no Stark, but not after Varys’ response regarding Lord Stark. He was incensed, and it made his voice cool. “And he is half Lannister.”

He couldn’t help but grimace inwardly at that. Joffrey was a little piece of shit. While Jon had been shocked to learn of Sansa’s marriage to Tyrion at the Wall, now he was certain that it would be a better match. Tyrion might not be Sansa’s vision of an ideal prince, but he would treat her gently and would encourage her hidden wit.

But perhaps, Jon thought doubtfully, Joffrey would grow to be a better man.

After all, Jon could scarcely reconcile himself of now with the blind, self-centered boy of the past.

The bald man’s eyes lit up in sudden amusement. “Half Lannister, is it? Ahh, yes, I suppose that is the case. My apologies then.”

But there was something in the fat man’s demeanor that suggested he knew more. Some hidden laughter present on his face. The man didn’t even bother to hide it.

Jon narrowed his eyes. He little liked these word games. “Is there something you wish to tell me?”

The bald man clucked his tongue. “You are so very blunt.”

“I see no point in not being direct when my companion is baiting me to ask.”

“Touché.” A smile flickered across the bald man’s face, quick as a flash and disappearing just as swiftly.  “Your father has taken to investigating the Baratheon family tree. Perhaps he is having second thoughts on this betrothal of your sister’s.”

Jon’s jaw slackened. His anger at the man was quickly washed away by the tide of surprise which followed the statement.

Just as he was thinking that Joffrey was no match for Sansa—

“Truly?”

There was a shift in their conversation. Varys’ eyes darkened. “I tell no lies.”

Jon shook his head. It was unbelievable. It should be good news, except he had no idea why it should happen. And there was more than that. “Then, why are you telling _me_ this?”

Because no matter how he thought about it, this wasn’t the type of information one would share with a bastard.

The bald man’s lips thinned, and quite suddenly, he did not seem like the elusive courtier who took pleasure in spinning circles around Jon from just minutes ago. Hands clasped behind his back, Varys looked quite serious. “The Hand of the King is poking in places that he shouldn’t, and I worry what will happen when somebody other than me figures that out. Out of everyone whom Lord Eddard Stark has brought to King’s Landing, you seem to be the only one who both understands what it means to want peace and to be willing to give someone like me a chance.”

“Because of Tyrion.” Jon realized. “That was why you were asking about him. And you want me to stop my father.”

Varys shook his head. “That would be asking the impossible. But whatever he seeks, if you by some chance can find it first… I have a feeling you would deal with it better than the ever honorable Eddard Stark.”

Jon’s lips twisted. “That honor is one of my father’s greatest virtues.”

“I am sure, I am sure,” Varys murmured, quick to bow his head in acquiescence. “But there is a reason that virtue is scarce in King’s Landing. And I am not saying you are not honorable, but you at least seem able to discern when to use that honor.”

“You say that as if honor is something that can be turned on and off.”

“Oh.” The Spider’s eyes widened, ever so slightly. He breathed out, his shoulders sagging, “So you do take after your father after all. Shame.”

“I don’t think there’s any shame in that,” Jon said sharply.

And then he too let out a breath, turning away slightly. Grey eyes fluttered closed.

“I apologize for my tone.” He said softly. “I understand—Lord Stark’s level of honor might seem foolish to some. And I do not begrudge you for not holding the same definition as he does. But I find Lord Stark’s restraint highly admirable. And I will not stand any insult to my Lord Father.”

And Jon would never be half as honorable as Ned Stark, no matter how much he wished it. Otherwise he would not have deserted the Wall the first time and only been brought back because of his friends. Otherwise he would not have been so tormented by —or would have even considered— Stannis’ offer to raise him as the Lord of Winterfell. Otherwise he would still be at the Wall to save the realm, and not in King’s Landing to save his family.

“Understandable, understandable. I also apologize. I did not mean our Lord Hand any insult. Gods forbid, no.” Varys sighed. “I simply worry for this realm, you understand.”

“I worry too.” Jon murmured. Finally he turned back again, meeting Varys’ gaze evenly. “If I do end up finding out something before Lord Stark, I will do my upmost to convince him to make a decision that befits the Hand of the King, not the Lord of Winterfell. You were not mistaken about me.”

Varys’ lips parted, only for them to purse closed again. And then, a faint smile twined across his face.

“No.” There was something thoughtful in Varys’ expression as he regarded Jon. “I do believe I was.”

Jon looked at the other man curiously, but Varys did not elaborate.

Instead, he reached inside his sleeve and slid out a slip of paper. He held it out to Jon. “This is a site your lord father visited just recently, and I think it may be of help to you.”

Jon took the slip, staring at the scrawled out location curiously. He had no more idea than Varys what his father would want with a smith.

 “I’ll look into it when I can,” Jon promised as he folded the paper up again. He hesitated. “Thank you.”

“I live to serve.” Varys smiled. “And I know you won’t disappoint, Jon Snow.”

It was only long after they had separated that Jon realized how odd his agreement was. If Varys could find out the exact places that Father had gone, how could the Spider not have figured out what he was doing there? There was something deeper in the Spider’s conversation with Jon.

But it did not bother him, not truly. So long as he and Varys were working towards the same goal, he did not care if he was being manipulated. The Spider was welcome to any advancement in court politics.

Digging out the slip that Varys had gifted him with, Jon read the directions again. He let out a breath, his fist closing tightly over the torn parchment. He had looked at it so many times he practically had it memorized by now. All Jon wanted was to save his family, and he was one step closer with this.


	7. Chapter VI

It wasn’t until the hazy afternoon of the next day that Jon had the chance to slip off. Arya invited him to practice Syrio’s teachings with her, but Jon begged off by saying he had errands to run for Tyrion. He hated lying to his sister, but he was certain that she would want to come with him if she knew where he was going. And while he did not mind her knowing generally what was happening, he did not want her to be involved in the specifics.

Perhaps it was hypocritical of him. No, he knew it was hypocritical of him. But he would like to keep her separated from Varys if he could.

Sneaking out of the Red Keep was easy. While guards were routine in validating the identity of every man to enter the royal premises, there was no such need for scrutiny for the men who were leaving. It required nearly no effort to put the King’s Gate behind him and step into the city proper.

Except, as Jon found, the city proper was not proper at all.

The streets stank something awful. But of that he was already aware when he had first arrived with Tyrion. What he hadn’t been aware of atop their horse was the source of it all.

In Winterfell, the cold froze over most waste, but even so the population was large enough that litter was a problem. Jon had not realized how lucky they were until he stepped foot into the pauper streets of King’s Landing.

Grime, bits of rotten animal, and what had to be human feces paved the roads of the kingdom’s capital. It squelched beneath his feet, and the sweltering heat of the fading summer only added to the reek. Jon was not unused to flies, but his stomach churned at the sheer amount which buzzed around the lower strata. The people of King’s Landing however, seemed used to it.

Market continued on as normal despite the stink, with vendors shouting about their fresh fruits despite the fact that it had to be impossible to smell said wares. People milled about the streets with an easy cadence born of a lifetime of shoving past crowds.

Jon did not have such luxury. He quickly became stuck in the crowds and stuck in the muck.

Despite how much attention he could ill afford to draw, Jon wondered if he shouldn’t have ridden a horse.

Still, the gods were not unfavorable towards him, and sent him a man with a solution to his passage problems.

“My lord, my lord!” Someone was yelling.

It took Jon a moment to realize that they were probably calling out to him.

He turned towards the source of the voice. One of the merchants manning a stall of glittering jewellery pieces was waving at him. He smiled when he saw that Jon had turned, and made a walking gesture with his hand before giving a shrug, as if asking if that was what Jon needed.

Jon went to him.

“You new to King’s Landing?” The man asked shrewdly when the boy of five-and-ten stopped before him and regarded him evenly. “We get a lot of nobles who don’t know what for when they come up ‘ere. You’ll be wantin’ these.”

He held up a pair of what appeared to be sandals. The bottoms of the sandals however were extended by thin planks of wood, one at the ballpoint of the foot and the other at the heel. It was much like a shorter version of the stilts that murmurs would wear for some entertainments.

Jon realized that he had seen most of the passing people wear such a contraption.

“They help to not get sunk by the filth and things, see?” The merchant continued with a nod towards the streets. He turned a toothy grin at Jon. “So what do you say? It’ll only be a single silver stag.”

“A stag?” Jon murmured as he took the sandal from the merchant’s hands. “That’s robbery.”

It was not even truly a shoe. It was a frame of wood where one would slip in their shoe.

Still, Jon had wasted enough time already. There was only one problem. “This design… can you even walk with it?”

“A good eye, m’lord.” The merchant smiled. “It requires some balance yes, but not more than jousting I’d daresay.”

“I’m not a lord,” Jon muttered. Nor had he ever jousted. His hand tightened around the sandal. “I’ll take it then.”

What was it that Arya said? A water dancer could balance on one toe for hours?

He smiled slightly, and bought another pair.

The Street of Steel was cleaner than the market proper, and Jon was able to take off the uncomfortable stilt sandals of before. He found the forge just as Varys said, at the end of the street of metalworkers and distanced from the others by its hill.

A serving girl came out to greet him, but one look at his clothes and she scurried off to retrieve her master.

“Tobho Mott at your service. Here to try your hand at the Hand’s Tourney, lad?” A stout man of forty or so years laughed as he emerged from the back. But then he saw Jon, and he stilled.

“I am the Hand’s son.” Jon said placidly. He had not been sure of Varys’ information until now, but there was no mistaking that this smith master recognized his face. His father’s face. That thought still sent a tinge through Jon’s gut. “It would shame my father for me to participate.”

The previous warmth from the master armorer’s face had all but disappeared. “What more does His Lord require? I would have thought he’d seen everything he required, the last time.”

“Seen, but not recorded.” Jon intoned. “My Lord Father wishes the information that was given to him be readily available. And writing serves better than mere memory.”

Tobho gave Jon a searching look. And then, he let out a frustrated sigh, and spun on his heel with a jerky gesture for Jon to follow.

The boy did.

 _What a skilled liar I’m becoming,_ Jon thought.

His tongue felt heavy with the knowledge.

“I said that the lord who paid for Gendry’s apprenticeship was stout, round of shoulder, not so tall as your father,” the man was saying. “Brown beard, but there was a bit of red in it. Wore a rich cloak, heavy purple velvet worked with silver threads, but the hood shadowed his face and I never did see him clear.”

They went through the rear door and across the yard, to where the work was done.

The armorer looked at Jon sharply. “I also said that I know only what I’m told, and I want no trouble. Gendry came to be as an apprentice and that is all. And shouldn’t you be writing this down?”

“I’m trained to remember.” Jon said calmly and without hesitation. He had brought no paper. “I prefer to write in a library over the open air.”

Tobho shrugged and otherwise did not question it. The master called over a tall, broad shouldered boy about Jon’s age. His shirt was soaked through with sweat and he smelled faintly of hard iron.

“This here is the son of the Hand of the King, so show him the same respect you would Lord Eddard.” The master said about Jon, giving the boy a hard pat on the back. And then he was stalking off, back into the house. “The rest the Hand said, he said to Gendry.”

The other boy—Gendry—looked up at Jon. Fierce blue eyes met steel grey.

“What d’you want?” The other boy asked challengingly. He paused. “M’lord.”

The look was so reminiscent of Grenn then that it stilled Jon for a moment. He was surprised by the sudden, sharp pang of longing for his friends at the Night’s Watch.

But, he reminded himself, they were not his friends now. He had chosen his family instead. And besides, if he could prevent everything from spiralling out of control, maybe he could save them all at the Wall. In truth the boy in front of him looked nothing like Grenn.

“I’m not a lord,” Jon said nonetheless. It would have been easier to not correct the assumption. “I’m a bastard.”

A flash of surprise flickered across Gendry’s eyes. The mulish expression on his face faded somewhat.

“Same as me then.” Gendry paused. “Though my father wasn’t highborn like yours.”

Something about that statement tugged at Jon, but for the life of him he could not figure out why.

He shook it off. “High birth does not count for nearly as much as people seem to think. It helps in privilege, but what really matters is character and skill.”

Gendry only snorted.

Jon smiled faintly. Before his time at the Wall, he had truly believed that he was better. It hadn’t been a conscious thought, but he’d grown up knowing numbers and politics and words where the smallfolk had not. It was impossible not to see the difference.

And then Donal Noye had talked to him and Tyrion had showed him another path and Jon had gotten to know his brothers. They were lowborn, but they did not lack in honor or intelligence. Jon had nearly abandoned the Wall thrice, and twice his friends had brought him back. The last time he had only succeeded because they were not there. And that success cost him dearly.

 _I should have never sent them away,_ Jon thought.

“Perhaps it feels like that since you likely grew up in a castle,” Gendry said with a shake of his head. “But trust me, it makes a difference. Anyway, I don’t suppose you came here to talk about the distinctions between our lives. There’s bastards a plenty in King’s Landing. What did you need?”

This version of the question was asked much more politely than the first, and Jon rewarded it by giving Gendry the same story he had given Tobhor.

Gendry was far from pleased. But he seemed to understand that asking him all this again was not Jon’s choice. After all, Jon was supposedly only the messenger.

Jon’s surprise about his father’s lines of questioning was only matched by his guilt.

Still, Gendry’s tale left much to ponder upon. It was strange that Lord Arryn and Lord Stannis Baratheon were interested in him first. And worryingly, Lord Arryn was dead. Could whatever involved Gendry be what led Father to his death?

Already deep in his thoughts, Jon determined that he needed to go back to the castle and think more about this. Gendry offered to show Jon the way out because the layout of the smithy could be confusing, and Jon bade goodbye to the apprentice smith.

“Oh and,” Jon added as he stopped at the exit, “I’ve been thinking of finding a good armorer in King’s Landing. Will you make me something in the future?”

There was a hard glint in Gendry’s eyes, “Why? Pity?”

A smile touched upon Jon’s lips. “No. My Lord Father wanted to purchase your helm. He doesn’t make offers to unskilled craftsmen.”

Gendry’s face opened with surprise. There was still a hint of disbelief in his expression, but he nodded. “Sure, then. M’lord.”

“Not a lord,” Jon corrected.

Gendry smirked. “Weren’t you the one who said it wasn’t high birth that mattered?”

Jon made it back to the Red Keep just in time for dinner. He gave Arya her present just before they headed into Father’s solar. She hugged him and thanked him but strictly told him to take her with him to explore King’s Landing next time.

Bran, notably, was not there. Just as he had not been the previous night. Jon was too preoccupied with the day’s events to ask about it.

Then the third night came and Bran still did not show for dinner.

After a good night’s sleep and some distance, Jon had decided that he wouldn’t figure out the importance in Tobhor’s apprentice from thinking alone. And he had more time to wonder where Bran was. Uncomfortably, he remembered their last conversation. He had conveniently forgotten about it in the face of Varys’ gift to him.

Even Sansa inquired as to why Bran wasn’t with them.

Father replied that it was nothing to worry about. But there was a contemplative look on Father’s face and Jon knew then that Father would speak to him. Jon relaxed.

Bran came back to them on the fourth day.

Jon caught his arm in the doorway as he came in for dinner. Bran stiffened, eyes widening as he looked up at the older and much stronger boy. Jon eased his grip.

“Hey,” Jon said softly. “What happened before—if you don’t want me to know, I won’t ask. But know that I’ll always love you no matter what.”

He thought of the crushing news he’d received at the Wall. The despair he’d felt when he’d heard that Winterfell had been taken. Theon had betrayed them, and Bran and Rickon were dead.

Had he ever told Bran that he’d loved him in the past? Jon didn’t think so. That was yet another regret which had iced his trembling heart long before the daggers cooled his body.

Bran’s eyes widened.

Jon let go. And then he was joining Arya and Father and striking up a conversation about the Vale. Bran was still quiet, and was quick to leave when dinner concluded, which was surprising after one of Ned Stark’s talks. Father had always managed to see through his children. Was it possible that Bran’s problems were too much even for Ned Stark?

As promised however, Jon did not push. He spent his days helping and learning in equal measures from Tyrion, searching for what Ned Stark was searching for, and practising with Syrio and Ayra. It was a different sort of life from the Wall, but one that he guiltily realized he could easily become accustomed to.

And in one of those days, Bran came to him.

“I can’t stand it anymore.” Bran confessed. He’d found Jon’s room after dinner, just as the dark haired boy was getting ready for sleep. “You know—You know what it’s like not to belong. Is it bad?”

Jon was surprised, but waved Bran in. Bran closed the door behind him.

“I used to think so.” Jon said softly. He was already dressed in his night clothes and was doing some last light’s reading. The lamp at his bedside guttered, and he set his book aside. Jon moved over, gesturing for Bran to take the other end of his bed.

Bran sat. They hadn’t done this often in Winterfell, with Jon’s time mostly appropriated by Robb. But there had been some nights where Bran had wanted advice and had snuck into Jon’s rooms to seek it.

“But you don’t think so anymore?” Bran pressed. He didn’t look like he believed Jon.

Jon shook his head. “It’s not the worst thing.” He paused. He kept his voice deliberately light, although it was hard to do so. “It’s far better to not belong and have people who love you, than belong only because everyone else has gone.”

Bran stared at him. “You’re always so dour, Jon.”

Jon let out a small laugh. “I am, aren’t I? But you’ve been rather sullen these days too.”

Bran looked down.

“I just—” the much smaller boy said quietly. “I just don’t know what to do. Father came to talk to me the other day you know? But I couldn’t tell him. I really really wanted to though.”

“So tell me.” Jon said patiently. 

Bran drew in a breath. And then another. And then another. He looked up, tensed, and looked away again. His little fingers dug into Jon’s sheets, knuckles turning nearly as white as the linen beneath them.

 “Were you—you weren’t lying when you said you’d love me no matter what?”

Jon shook his head, voice infinitesimally gentle. “No, I wasn’t lying.”

The smaller boy swallowed. He kicked up his shoes. “Father said the same thing.”

Jon nodded, “And he means it too.”

“I know that. I know that he does. He’s our Father after all.” Bran sighed, drawing his legs up to his chest. He buried his face in his knees. His voice came out muffled. “You’re going to think I’m crazy.”

Jon’s lips quirked, “No more than I already do, for all you climb the walls.”

Bran let out a giggle despite himself, “This isn’t funny, Jon.”

Jon put a hand on Bran’s shoulder. “I never said it was.”

They lapsed into silence. When Bran finally spoke again, his voice was soft. Thoughtful. Far away.

“When Nymeria couldn’t be found, the Queen wanted Lady and Summer killed as compensation. The King didn’t stop her. Father was going to do it himself. Because it was honorable, you know? They wouldn’t let us watch. Father’s guards I mean. Wouldn’t let us try to help them like Arya did Nymeria. She didn’t say anything about it but I knew. Nymeria wouldn’t have left if Arya didn’t make her.”

Jon nodded. This part he had already heard from Jory. He had also heard that Bran was crying and struggling so much that he’d collapsed from exhaustion.

“And then.” Bran exhaled raggedly. “And then everyone says I fainted, but I didn’t.”

Jon felt his blood run cold.

“Summer didn’t know how to undo chains,” Bran said quietly. “But I do. Suddenly I saw Father coming to me, even though a moment ago he’d been walking away from me. And I knew what he was going to do. So I undid my chains and Lady’s. There were shouts but I couldn’t understand them. All I knew was that I had to get out of there. And so we ran. There was too much confusion for anyone to catch us, although Ser Clegane did come across our path. I panicked. So I bit him. And there was so much _blood_. But it felt, it felt—”

Good. Right. _Delicious_.

There was a lump in Jon’s throat.

“Powerful,” Jon found himself saying. He hardly recognized his own voice. “Free. Wild. Like the wind and like the snow. Like you could go wherever you liked and no one could stop you.”

Bran’s head jerked up in surprise. His eyes were wide. “How do you…? How do you…?”

“I—” But how could he explain Ghost when Ghost did not exist here? “I had a friend, once. He was a creature of the north, brave and fierce. Nobody else knows about him, but he did far more for me than I can describe. Sometimes, I would walk in his skin.”

The breath that Bran drew was so sharp that the air whistled. “You mean you’re—like the stories Old Nan tells us?”

Jon reached out a hand to ruffle Bran’s hair. “You are too. It isn’t a bad thing, trust me on this. Stories have a bad habit of becoming exaggerated over time.”

Bran was shaking. Quite suddenly he let out a cry, and lunged forward to hug Jon. He buried his face against Jon’s chest, small, whimpering sounds escaping him. Jon realized that Bran was crying.

“I thought—all this time I thought—I must have been crazy. But I have dreams of Summer and he’s with Lady and Nymeria and I know that I didn’t just make up the whole thing back at the Trident. But Father was sure that it’s nothing and he said I was just missing Summer and he tried to be understanding but I could tell that he didn’t believe me. And I couldn’t blame him because if it were me in his place I wouldn’t believe it either. But you’re—you’re also—”

He cried for a good while. All of Bran’s hidden pain and sorrow for the past few months were let out. Jon felt his heart go out to his little brother, and he could do nothing but rub soothing little circles on the smaller boy’s back and murmur ‘it’s okay, it’s okay’ over and over again.

Bran finally tired himself out. The little boy fell into an exhausted slumber at the end of the crying. Jon gently disentangled Bran and shifted him to a more comfortable position on Jon’s bed. He pulled his blankets up over the boy and wiped away his tears.

The first time Jon had truly found out about his connection with Ghost, he remembered having a hard time believing it. Even now, it was hard. And at the very least he had the free folk to prove to him that such abilities existed and he had months to adapt to it before the revelation. He could not imagine what it must have been like for Bran. And Bran was only seven.

At the same time—

At the same time, it had taken him a good year and a half to start experiencing Ghost and to recognize it for what it was. And even then he hadn’t been able to take full control of the great beast. To think that Bran would be able to direct Summer only after a few months…

He smoothed back Bran’s hair. Bran’s forehead felt hot against his fingers, but it was not because the smaller boy had a fever. Jon had gone cold from the ominous feeling which had descended upon him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh gosh I felt like I wrote the last two chapters terribly, but this one is finally decent again. Basing King’s Landing somewhat off Medieval London. I’m sorry for how slowly the plot is progressing because I’ve just realized we’re seven chapters in and nothing has even really happened. I am taking my sweet time smelling the roses, so to speak, but I think a lot of us want to see these character interactions, yes?


	8. Chapter VII

After that night, Bran thankfully regained some sense of normal. Now that Jon was really paying attention, he could tell that the younger boy was more prone to silences than he used to be, but he was chattering and smiling again. ****

Father stopped Jon after dinner one night. Arya and Bran had gone ahead, with Bran prattling excitedly about something he and Tommen had found. Arya was trying to appear uninterested.

Ned’s face was contemplative as he peered down at Jon. “You talked to him, didn’t you?”

“How did you know?” Jon asked. But he was not surprised. The Lord of Winterfell was a good father, and paid more attention than most in regards to his children.

“Who else could it have been?” Ned answered with a shake of his head. He hesitated, and then he gave Jon’s shoulder a light squeeze. “I am glad you are here.” 

There was so much Jon wanted to tell his father in that moment. About Bran and about his uncertainly as to how much he could help the younger boy. About what he was doing and what he knew was going to happen. He let the moment pass.

He always let the moment pass. It became easier with time. He did not know if that was a good thing or not. 

The days returned to normal. With the King’s Tourney coming up, Tyrion became busy and Jon with him. Still he made sure to make time for lessons with Syrio and practice with Arya, because the heavens knew he needed them. Syrio was as good of a teacher as Ser Rodrick, and Jon felt his fighting style changing by the day. He couldn’t help but think that the next time he sparred with Robb, the eldest Stark would be in for a surprise. 

Whenever he could sneak off, Jon would look into what his father was doing. He’d talk to the servants and to the squires. Much like in Winterfell, it was they who knew how the castle operated. But unlike Winterfell where much of the staff avoided him on account of Lady Catelyn, the ones at the Red Keep seemed to find him curious. Sometimes Varys helped him.

Sometimes Bran came to him with stories about dreaming of Summer, or even catching glimpses of the lives of other creatures in King’s Landing. Jon was of little help. He had only ever experienced anything with Ghost.

But Bran did not seem to mind. He looked happy to even be able to share with someone. Jon allowed his brother that. 

And then the week before the Hand’s Tourney Jon received an interruption to his schedule.

He was dressing when a knock came at his door. Calling out an apology and trying to put on his other boot, Jon hobbled to the door. He opened it to reveal the timid face of Masha, one of the Lannister servants that Tyrion had introduced.

Jon tensed. “Did something happen?”

Tyrion was of a good nature and liked to lounge and enjoy the Red Keep’s hospitality. Should anything have happened that was not in need of immediate attention, Tyrion would have simply waited to tell him.

But Masha could only shake his head helplessly, “I don’t know, ser. But you’re required down at the training grounds.”

Normally Jon would have corrected the boy for his address. He was no knight after all. But he was too worried to waste time. He only paused to snag his purse and dagger and called for Masha to lead the way before rushing out the door.   

He had no idea why Tyrion would be at a place burly men frequented, but it spelled trouble. He could only hope that he’d be able to help the man get out of it.

But when they reached the training grounds, the dwarf was nowhere to be seen. Instead, there was…

“Ser Jaime?” Jon asked in confusion.

Jaime Lannister was standing with his back to them, two blunted swords in his hands as he gazed up at the rising sun. At Jon’s question, he turned.

The first rays of the sun lit the kingslayer’s frame like the knight was its twin cast to earth. Despite donning only simple leather armor rather than his golden gear, the Lion of Lannister looked resplendent in the field. 

“Told my brother I’d be borrowing you.” Jaime grinned. He tossed one of his swords to Jon. “Here, catch.”

Jon instinctively caught it. And then his eyes widened. It was perfect.

“Right weight?” Jaime grinned, like he knew exactly how Jon felt about it.

Jon looked up from the sword, meeting the golden knight’s smile squarely. “Were you able to tell just from looking at me?”

Jaime bobbed his head in a nod, “Yep. Got keen eyes, see? Well, keen everything really. Want to test it yourself?”

Jon sucked in a startled breath. “You want to spar with me.”

The grin on Jaime’s face did not abate as he twirled the blunted blade in his hands. It glinted in the morning light. “I do believe that’s why I called you here and gave you a sword, yes. I thought you were supposed to be smart, since you’re Tyrion’s aide.”

“I’m not…” Jon was stunned. For a moment he struggled to speak. Jaime Lannister was the kingslayer yes, the disgrace of all knights, but he was also one of the finest swordsmen of the realm. To be asked to spar with him was every boy’s dream. Jon bowed. “I’m honored.” 

“Then,” Jaime raised his sword tip, a mischievous smile on his features as he suddenly rushed forward. “On your guard!”

Caught completely _off_ guard, Jon clumsily raised his blade to parry Jaime’s. It wasn’t good enough of a block. Wasn’t _nearly_ good enough.

His opponent broke through, but by now Jon had gathered his wits and his body was guided with long arduous hours of practice in the courtyard. His opponent’s blade went past Jon’s sword so Jon allowed it to, instead weaving to dodge as Syrio’s lessons rang loudly in his head.

Jon too went forward, darting to attack rather than pulling back to regroup. He ducked and jabbed his foot out towards his opponent’s leg, twisting his sword around the one that had come at him in order to stop a potential counterattack.

Except Jaime didn’t need to launch a counterattack. Instead he bent his elbow, throwing his weight to the left and throwing Jon off balance enough for the boy’s foot to only skim the kingsguard’s leg instead of kicking his knee in.

Jon used his stumble to pivot, slipping free his sword and jabbing it towards the Lannister’s throat. A flash of silver gleamed as Jaime’s sword returned again and forced Jon’s blade up. A complicated expression crossed the knight’s face and he held up a hand to indicate that he wanted to talk.

Jon withdrew his weapon, nonplussed. Jaime also lowered his sword.

The strange look on Jaime’s visage was in sharp contrast to the wickedness he had sported just seconds earlier, “You’re actually quite good, aren’t you?”

Jon’s reply was dry, “Thank you.”

“No I—” Jaime shook his head, and laughed. “I didn’t mean it like that boy, sorry. I guess I just didn’t expect Tyrion to snag someone who was both good at his numbers _and_ fighting. Just isn’t fair, is it?”

“You can’t be bad at numbers,” Jon pointed out. After all, Jaime was raised as the Lannister heir.

Jaime grinned, “No but I mean you’re really, very good.” And then his smile gained a predatory edge. “I’d thought to get a morning exercise, but I might have to go serious with you. You’d better go get some protection.”

Really, one was supposed to practice with some protection, even with blunted edges. A direct hit from the weight of a full sword was no joke, and even a glancing blow could bruise. 

Jon blushed when he realized that he’d also forgotten. In Syrio’s lessons, no one wore armor, and truthfully it had been a long time since Jon put on hard leather. Thinking of Syrio, Jon had to be amazed at how much his swordplay had improved. He’d only been under the water dancer’s tutelage for a month or so, and already he’d seen the results in his spar.

They sparred until the sun was high in the sky and sweat was pouring down both their backs. Jaime had won every round of course, but the dark haired boy had done his best to make the man work for it. 

Syrio was, Jon thought as he finally put down his sword, his breathing sounding less like breathing and more like a cattle stampede, probably the only reason why Jon had lasted over ten minutes against Jaime today.

The Lannister heir was much better off, his breathing still even as he too turned down his sword.

Jaime’s stomach grumbled. He smiled sheepishly, “Oh man, you sure gave me a workout. I’m famished.”

Jon could only shake his head, panting too hard to adequately answer.

Jaime laughed aloud, “Alright then. Catch your breath first, and then we’ll put away all this stuff and go have a feast for lunch. That sound good to you?”

The boy of five-and-ten somehow found his voice again. 

“Tyrion?” Jon croaked.

Jaime frowned, “Oh yeah, Tyrion. He did want you in the afternoon, now that I think about it.”

Curiosity burned at him. He had been caught up in the exuberance of sword fighting with a member of the kingsguard before, but now that it was over, his old inquires were returning to him. 

“Why did you ask me from Tyrion in the first place?” Jon questioned with narrowed eyes. “You weren’t expecting me to put up a fight. You said it yourself.”

Jaime flashed Jon a grin as he turned and started heading towards the storage shed for the practice equipment they had used. “I don’t suppose you’ll take the explanation that I was trying to intimidate you?”

“Doesn’t make any sense,” Jon said with a shake of his head as he followed the Lannister. “You already tried that the first time, and you have too much battle sense to try the same tactic twice.”

Jaime hummed low in the back of his throat. They reached the shed and began setting the objects they had borrowed back into their proper places. “Well you never took me up on that invitation to the tavern.”

Jon stopped in the midst of hanging up his borrowed leather. He gaped at Jaime. “ _That’s_ the reason?”

“Sure, why not?” Jaime shrugged. He was fixing the straps around the tourney swords. “And maybe I don’t have a reason. Maybe I just wanted to see what would come out of it.”

Jon was silent as he finished settling the crown’s weapons back in their place. “ _Did_ anything come out of it?”

Jaime leant against the doorway. The sunlight spilled in around him. “Might be so. I found a pretty good sparring partner after all.”

Jon blinked. Had he really put up enough of a fight to be considered ‘good’ by the best of the realm? “You honor me.”

“Not really,” Jaime grinned. “The kingsguard has just really gone to the dogs. Well, I suppose I’m not someone who can really complain about that.”

There was something in the way Jaime Lannister said it. Something akin to pain and bitterness seemed to flash across his face despite himself.

For a moment Jon was confused, and then an idea struck him.

“Kingslayer,” Jon said slowly, as if testing the word against his tongue. “Bastard. Dwarf. It’s not a title you like either, is it?”

The warmth from Jaime’s gaze dissipated instantly, “Excuse me, Snow?”

“It bothers you,” Jon whispered, half startled and yet suddenly so very sure. “That nobody believes you have honor.”

Jaime’s eyes glittered like cold emeralds. Instead of straightening like any other would have done however, he slouched further, as if Jon’s tales did not interest him. “Oh? And yet I killed the king.”

Jon thought of Bowen Marsh, and the others who took a dagger to their hands to end the life of their Lord Commander. They had betrayed their vows also. Jon was sure that he’d never be able to trust them again, but he had long since forgiven them. 

Sometimes, in the quiet of the night when he was not thinking about how to fix all of this, he thought about that day. He thought about what he might have done to deserve that and how he could have been so blind as to not see it coming. He did not regret his decisions, but perhaps he should have taken more care to explain them to his sworn brothers. They had abandoned their vows yes, but it was he who abandoned his first.

“A king who has betrayed what it means to rule cannot be considered a king at all,” the boy said gently, his voice but a trace of vibration on the summer breeze.

Surprise flashed across Jaime’s face, before it gave way to something complicated. The Lion turned away.

“You are not allowed to say such things,” he said tightly.

Jon bowed his head. Jaime was correct. Jon had no right. “I am sorry.”

For a long moment, there was nothing but the vague sounds of the bustling noon from outside to break the silence.

“I was the Kingsguard,” Jaime finally whispered, and for the first time, he did not sound like the strong and aloof Lion of Lannister. “Even if it were a pig in that chair, I should have protected them with my dying breath. Is that not what you Starks are about? Honor?”

Jon closed his eyes. Honor. Honor. Honor had cost his father and Robb their lives. Honor had held him back from helping Stannis. Honor had torn him from the inside out when he’d found out about Bolton and Arya. Honor he had abandoned to complete this quest. Honor that still rung within him. He did not even know what that word meant anymore. When he opened his eyes again, they were steady, and he was able to meet Jaime’s gaze evenly.

“There’s honor in serving in your duty until your last breath.” He thought of Mance Ryder. Tormund. Ygritte. She would have called Ser Barriston Selmy nothing short of foolish. “…but there’s also other kinds of honor.”

“Sounds to me like you’re just trying to have your cake and eat it too.” But Jaime’s voice had taken a curious tone. “And I’ll presume you don’t need me to explain that’s impossible?”

Jon suddenly grinned. It was only a quick movement of his lips, but it could not be denied. “It is if you have two kinds of cake.” 

Jaime blinked. He turned back to look at Jon. And then he threw back his head, and laughed.

 “You truly are something, Jon Snow,” Jaime said when he finished, a grin still dancing on his lips. “My apologies for my inappropriate behaviour when we first met. I don’t do apologies often so treasure this one well. But I can see now why Tyrion’s so taken with you.”

Jon blinked, “Ah—” 

He wasn’t sure quite what to say.

Jaime pushed himself off the doorway, “You know, despite what I said, the Kingsguard isn’t so bad. There is something to be said about sharing the same position as Ser Arthur Dayne or Ser Barristan the Bold. It’s a place where highborn and bastards alike can rise to unimaginable heights.” He turned to leave. “You might want to consider the Kingsguard yourself.”

Jon stopped, stunned. His eyes were wide as he stared at the Lannister. “I…”

Jaime craned his neck back and shrugged. There was a wide grin on his face. “Just a thought.”

And then it was only Jon standing alone in that shed.

xxxxx

Before Jon could entertain much thoughts about the Kingsguard, its dark sister sent him a message. Ned Stark gave him an odd look as he passed Maester Aemon’s letter to him in the morning, but surprisingly asked no questions. For that Jon was grateful.

The contents of the letter was much less heartening.

_Son of Winterfell,_

_You speak of dark tidings and I am hesitant to believe the myth and legend that you warn of. Yet Benjen Stark has gone and has not come back, and rumours of unprecedented sightings of wildings persist. I know not where you learned my true name, but I am Maester Aemon of Castle Black now. I have scoured my books for the phenomenon which you describe, and although I do not know how you could have come across such counsel, I am convinced that you are not lying. Benjen has always been a good judge of character, and I know the Starks are honourable. However, simply because you are not lying does not mean you are not misinterpreting. Please, come to Castle Black and let us discuss your source of information._

Jon’s stomach flopped. He had hoped that his letter would prevent Uncle Benjen to be sent out for the ranging in the first place. But all those warnings had been useless.

His fingers tightened around the thin sheet of paper, knuckles turning white. He closed his eyes and took a shuddering breath. Truly, he should have known better than to expect himself to be believed right away, even if it was Maester Aemon who tended towards the mythic.

A pang of regret twanged through him. He should have been there, at the Wall. Maybe then he could have convinced Lord Commander Mormont and Maester Aemon, and Uncle Ben’s death could have been avoided.

 But it was only a passing fancy. Time had already been turned back once and Jon did not expect to have the miracle occur a second time. He had made his decision to keep with his family.

He still ached for Ghost.

Jon penned his reply with a heavy hand. He explained that he had come to King’s Landing because of further shadowy murmurings, though he did not specify what they were. Instead, he thought long and hard before with no small amount of guilt suggesting that when the rangers found dead bodies north of the wall, they should watch over them for the night. Wrights coming alive before their very eyes would be hard to disprove. He assured Maester Aemon that his source was good, but could not think of any details to embellish it. 

What could he say? It was a Greenseer dream? A wilding had told him? Or the most ridiculous tale of all, that he had lived through it once before? No, even Maester Aemon would have a hard time believing any of that.

Jon sealed the letter and made off for the postmen outside the Red Keep. He had often used them to deliver Tyrion’s messages before, and while he would be hesitant to trust anything in King’s Landing, he was only a bastard and they had no reason to blunder his missive so long as they received coin.

He had just come back, deep in thought as he walked down the halls, when a shrill voice interrupted his reverie.

“I heard you won a spar against the kingslayer.”

Jon stopped and turned in surprise. His surprise heightened when he registered who it was that was speaking to him. “What?”

Prince Joffrey Baratheon crossed his arms, green eyes narrowed in what likely was meant to be an imperious look, but just made him seem constipated. “I said, I heard you won a spar against the kingslayer. Are you deaf?”  

“I did not win,” Jon correctly slowly, although he had not stopped thinking about the Lannister’s words afterwards. It was a stupid thing to contemplate, with the threats of war and the Others, but Jon could not help it. He was still only just a boy, in so much as he had to act a man. Jaime’s offer had stirred up the old dreams of knights and heroes within him. The letter from the Night’s Watch had mitigated that however. “Ser Jaime Lannister destroyed me in every bout.”

“But you still fought against him.” The look the prince gave him was one of deep disdain. “Well then, how’d you get him to agree to it?”

Jon could only stare at Joffrey incredulously. He did not have time for this. He had neither the will nor the hour for pampering a spoiled prince. He looked around and wondered if it might be possible to simply push past Joffrey and be on his way. But he knew it wasn’t viable. This was the Red Keep, and Joffrey was the heir to the throne while Jon was just a bastard.

“I came with his brother,” Jon said calmly, deciding to instead to appease Joffrey’s interest in the quickest way possible. “It is likely Lord Tyrion was the reason for Ser Jaime’s notice.” 

For a moment Joffrey looked like he did not understand, but then the fragments of comprehension appeared in his eyes.

“You’re here with the dwarf?” Joffrey sneered.

Jon felt a pang of annoyance. Tyrion had said that titles did not matter, but the way Joffrey used them rubbed Jon the wrong way.

“Yes,” he replied through gritted teeth.

There was a light of resentment in Joffrey’s eyes. “Father is speaking of inviting you to our box for the tourney. Like he thinks you’re so great for catching the kingslayer’s attention, but it’s all because of that stupid dwarf?”

“He is a dwarf,” Jon corrected, “but if you wish to call him a fool then I’m afraid the entire realm would be baboons. No offence meant, Your Highness.”

Joffrey narrowed his eyes. Whatever else he was, he was not blind to insults rendered on himself. “Are you calling me an idiot, bastard?”

“Of course not,” Jon said calmly.

There was a smugly superior look in Joffrey’s eyes now. “Good, because you know, I’ll be king one day, and who knows, your head may roll just because I will it.”

Jon met the other boy’s gaze steadily, “And what a shame that is. You’d be a terrible king.”

He realized that he should have let it go. Tyrion had warned him about reacting in King’s Landing. He knew it and yet…

Joffrey purpled, “Why you—”

“Do you think the people will love you for severing heads arbitrarily?” Jon interrupted, lips twisting. He had not forgotten that it was under Joffrey Baratheon that his father had been executed. He was frustrated with himself, he was frustrated with the Night’s Watch, and most of all he was frustrated by this boy who did not know anything. “You take every chance to abuse the power entrusted to you. The people will realize that if they haven’t already.”

Joffrey’s mouth opened and closed, flopping like a fish. For a moment he seemed speechless, but then he rallied and regained some of his fervour. He clenched his fists. “They already love me! I’m their prince! They’ll love me forever!”

“No,” Jon disagreed flatly. His own anger was rising and it was cold. “They won’t. You know that they won’t, and that’s why you act so differently with them and with Sansa than you do for the people you don’t care about. But do you really want that? To live a lie and know that people will only like you for that? Is that truly satisfying?” 

Jon knew he was pushing too far, yet he could not stop himself. He fully expected Joffrey to throw a tempter tantrum and call for his guards. Instead, surprisingly, uncertainty flashed across Joffrey’s eyes. “Even my father doesn’t—how can other people possibly love—”

Startling realization crashed over Jon.

The frozen anger cracked and shattered. 

“Wait you… you don’t think…” Jon started, too stunned to speak.

Awareness of what he had just said flickered over Joffrey’s face. He paled in horror. And then he went red with anger.

“Shut up!” He screamed, his spittle flying everywhere as he lashed out. “Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! I’ll have you hanged for questioning me!”

He turned heel and ran. Jon closed his eyes and pressed a hand against his forehead.

Queen Cersei Jon knew not much of, but he had seen the way that Tyrion shut down whenever her name was mentioned, and he liked it not one bit. Robert Baratheon he had heard glorious stories of in the past, but nowadays seemed to always send Jon’s father away with a pinched face and wearied shoulders. More than that, they left a child who was as desperate to please as Jon was, except Robert Baratheon was the boy’s true father while Lady Catelyn was only the woman spurned by Jon’s mother.

Joffrey was convinced that his father did not love him, and in that moment Jon could not see a terrible tyrant, but only a scared and lonely little boy. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/n: Hi, I'm back with Season 5 as my motivation. Long time readers are probably asking, where has the Jon/Robb gone? All I can say is… I AM SO TERRIBLY SORRY. I did plan to do it, but then I got sucked into the terrible world of conspiracy theories. Dorne vs Illryio, Oldtown and Hightowers, the Littlefinger’s possible obsession with prophecy, Riverlands and the Darrys… and the ones which aren’t really relevant to this story like House Dustin vs the Boltons, Stannis’ true plan, Meereen and the Green Grace, Val and Wildlings. It’s completely changed my view of the war and I ended up rewriting my plot for Snowfall entirely. In any case, Jon/Robb would now be fairly impossible due to where the story is heading and as much as I’d love to develop them, there’s another pairing that would suit this story a lot better. But I’ve learned from my mistakes and won’t tag it until I get to that point in case it doesn’t actually happen. So once again, I’m SO SORRY. 
> 
> But there’s a silver lining to this dark cloud. Jaime Lannister was originally slated to die in the timeline of aGoT, but he’s going to live past that point due to the plot changes! Yay! (And yes that’s actually why he even features in this chapter. I wrote the first half of this chapter back when I had my old plot and I wanted to give him some screen time before his terribly sad demise, and then I liked it so much that I kept it). 
> 
> p.s. I apologize for sounding like a five year old. Somewhere down the line I changed from being someone who liked aSoIaF okay to a hardcore fan. And the advent of the new season has made me quite hyper, it seems.


	9. Chapter VIII

**Chapter VIII**

“What do you think it’ll take for him to like me?”

Jon, who had been walking down the halls of the Red Keep in full concentration of Tyrion’s notes, stopped and turned in surprise. Shock filtered through him when he registered who it was that was speaking to him, because it was the last person he expected to see. “What?”

Joffrey Baratheon crossed his arms. His cheeks were bright red. He sounded annoyed. “ _Well_? My father doesn’t—but I notice that your father adores you, and you’re a bastard and by all rights a disgrace. So how do you make your father like you?”

Jon carefully restored Tyrion’s papers to what they were. It had been a few days since his confrontation with Joffrey and subsequent revelation, and he supposed he had to give the prince points for not actually calling for his death. But it was a surprise that Joffrey would actually come to him for advice.

“I am unsure if I do anything specific,” Jon said honestly. “In fact, attempting to impress your father often does the opposite, especially if you are not sincere.” 

Joffrey’s eyes flashed, “Do not presume to tell _me_ what to do, bastard.”

Jon told himself to be patient. It was hard.  

“You wanted my advice, did you not?” Jon asked calmly. “I am simply relaying my own experiences—Lord Eddard Stark hates it when we endeavour to gain his favour by actions which otherwise is out of our character.”

“So what’s that mean for me then?” Joffrey demanded.

“What _does_ it mean for you?” Jon retorted. “What do you enjoy doing? What do you like talking about? Choose those topics to focus on instead of what you believe your father would want of you. Of course manners and shared interest is important, but not if it’s obvious you’d rather be doing something else.” 

Joffrey was silent for a long moment. And then a sneer rippled across his features.

“That is ridiculous advice,” he said coolly, “I had thought that even your minuscule existence might possibly hold one thing of value, but clearly I was mistaken.”

Jon inclined his head. By the gods, Joffrey was a shit child.

“What makes you think that?” Jon asked evenly.

Joffrey raised his chin and stared down at Jon with a look of contempt. “I _don’t_ have to explain myself to you. But the sheer stupidity of your suggestion warrants a reply.You have made clear your hatred of me. You don’t believe that I would come off as too abrasive to my father?”

The blond had given up all pretence of princely demeanour. 

“I don’t hate you,” Jon corrected. 

“Don’t lie to me,” Joffrey said through narrowed green eyes.“You said I would make a terrible ruler.”

“And so you would, as you are now.” Jon paused. He thought of lost chances and bitter tears. He thought of the arrogant boy who had gone to the Wall and the lessons that had emerged. His next words were but a whisper, “But you have the potential to be a great one.”

Joffrey opened his mouth to snap back a retort, when it seemed that the actual contents of what Jon said got through to him. His mouth closed again as surprise alighted behind his eyes. “What do you…” And then he hastily shook his head. “Don’t try to play any tricks with me, bastard!”

“It’s not a trick.” Jon said softly. “You understand what it’s like to be disregarded. Who would not wish for a king who can sympathize with the grievances brought by petitioners? If you wanted to be a good king truly, and not just for the sake of appearances, I don’t believe anyone would not love you.”

Joffrey stared. He didn’t even look as if he noticed he was doing it. 

Jon met his gaze evenly. He did not know if all of what he said was true, but he hoped, and hope would have to be enough.

Joffrey looked away first, a high flush climbing onto his visage. His fists clenched at his sides, “I tire of your presence.”

“I shall take my leave then,” Jon said with a slight bow of his head. He turned to find another corridor.

“Hold it,” Joffrey demanded, and Jon paused to look back. The blond’s eyebrows were drawn in an expression warning of danger, “If you tell anyone about this conversation, bastard, you’ll see just how much of a proponent of justice I can be.”

There were many things Jon could have said to that. He could have mentioned how this was an example of why Joffrey would be hated as king. He could question if the prince even understood the words he was using. He could have simply laughed because he had seen Lord Eddard Stark take justice into his own hands and a child like Joffrey could hardly compare.

Instead, he left a simple parting. The dialogue had been about Joffrey, not him. “I believe your father will love you as you are, and not as you are supposed to be.”

He turned then to disappear, but not before catching sight of startled green eyes.

“Wait! Wait, wait—” Joffrey called as he strode forward in a few purposeful steps and caught hold of Jon’s arm. Jon looked at the hand incredulously and fought the urge to shake it off. 

“Prince Joffrey?” Jon asked flatly. The title was used more as a reminder of Joffrey’s station than anything else.

Joffrey let go of Jon’s arm like it was made of hot iron. He went red, and surprisingly, cast his eyes to the floor. “I… I apologize for how I acted. It is what someone of your status deserves, but as the prince I should be more gracious.”

It was not truly an offering of remorse, but it was a lot more than Jon had ever expected from the Baratheon.

“So tell me again… tell me what I should do,” Joffrey said softly.

Crazily, Jon was reminded of Sam. The spoiled prince was nothing like his kind and intelligent friend, but the look in their eyes that appeared whenever they spoke of their father… it was the same. Joffrey was not a friend, and he was not friendless enough to need a protector, but perhaps this had been the first time that someone was truly honest with him and had taken the time to explain why. Jon knew the value of that.

“Will you listen?” Jon asked.

Joffrey’s jaw tightened. His face was twisted in an expression of discontent, but he nodded. 

“Then, let us begin.”

oOoOoOo

The Hand’s Tourney came on a day full of warmth and sun. The Stark children attended under the watchful eyes of Septa Mordane. Their father sat with King Robert and his family, along with all the lords currently within the king’s favour.  

Bran chattered excitedly as various knights of the realm rode in, pointing out each and every one to his siblings and what their backgrounds were. The Kingsguard, Ser Gregor Clegane, Lord Yohn Royce, Ser Balon Swann, Lord Bryce Caron… the list went on. He looked more lively than he ever had since arriving in King’s Landing. Sansa was pointing and giggling with Jeyne Poole. Even Arya had twin spots of red on her cheeks which betrayed her anticipation. 

Jaime Lannister seemed to find their group and winked in their direction.

“Did Ser Jaime just greet us?” Sansa gasped, jabbing Jeyne discreetly in the ribs. She looked around hurriedly, head twisting this way and that to make sure that it wasn’t some other lady that the Lion of Lannister had winked at.

Jeyne giggled as she clutched Sansa’s arm, “I think he did!”

“He greeted Jon is more like,” Arya said snidely. “Didn’t you hear? They’re sparring partners.” 

“Arya, it’s not good to tell lies,” Sansa said absently as she whispered to Jeyne.

Arya’s cheeks flared red. She stomped her foot, “I’m not lying you stupid awful—”

Jon put a hand on his sister’s arm. She glanced up at him, brows knitted together angrily. He shook his head and opened his mouth to tell her that it didn’t matter.

And it was just then that Bran jumped in.

“She’s not lying,” Bran said quietly. Sansa startled, turning back to look at them in surprise. “Jon really did spar with Ser Jaime. And Jon doesn’t brag about it, but I can tell. He did really well.”

Jon had mentioned the event separately to both Bran and Arya. Arya because he told Arya nearly everything, and Bran because he had thought telling him about Jaime might cheer him. Bran had been beyond jealous and had begged Jon for every detail.

“Oh,” Sansa flushed. She looked embarrassed. She considered Jon shyly, “Did you really spar with the Ser Lannister?”

“Only once,” Jon said placidly. He left out the mention of Jaime inviting him to find the lion at any time to do so again. “But it does not have to be the spar which made the impression. Lord Tyrion and he are close.”

Sansa’s eyes alighted in understanding, “Oh, right. You serve that imp, don’t you?”

“Lord Tyrion,” Jon stressed, “has accepted me as his aide, yes.”

Sansa shifted uncomfortably. She seemed to understand that she had upset him. “Ri—right.” Hurriedly, she turned back to Jeyne. 

Arya glared at the back of Sansa’s head hard enough to set it on fire.

“Who do you think has the best chance of winning?” Jon said desperately to Bran in hopes of keeping the peace. He wished Robb were here. Robb always had a way of dispelling tension and ugly feeling by a simple turn of phrase. Jon did fairly well with Arya, but he never had any idea what to do with Sansa.

Bran seemed to understand what Jon was trying to do, because he returned Jon’s look with a determined nod that looked all too much like a boy who had just accepted a mission. He had grown.

“Well if it’s just the jousts, I’d say…”

Conversation continued. No one tried to kill each other except down in the rings. Arya refused to be drawn in at first, but once the fighting started in earnest even she had a hard time holding onto her temper. Soon she was clutching Jon’s arm and pointing enthusiastically, demanding for him to explain the finer attributes of jousting and admiring the various riding techniques aloud. Bran alternatively listened to Jon’s commentary and chipped in himself, and even Sansa and Jeyne sometimes joined in the fun.

Then came Ser Gregor’s second joust, and Ser Hugh of the Vale was run through and tossed not ten feet from where they sat. Lifeless eyes stared up at them as the knight’s blood seeped into his clothing and soaked into the earth. Sansa burst into tears and Jeyne went into hysterics. Septa Mordane had to take her out to calm her. Arya and Bran had both paled. Jon stilled in shock.

Bran’s eyes had gone wide, “Did he just—”

“I think that’s obvious,” Arya snapped. But she looked queasy.

Ser Hugh’s body was carried away, and a boy with a spade ran out to the spot where he had fallen.

“That…that’s not…” Bran began shakily, before giving a decisive shake of his head and looking down determinedly at the ring. His face was as serious as Eddard Stark’s had ever been. “Ser Hugh fought well.”

Sansa, who had been sniffling loudly, nodded, “Ye—yes, that’s right, Ser Hugh did fight well. He did his family proud.”

“And what family is that?” Arya asked nastily. She jumped to her feet. “You really think they’ll be proud that he went and got himself killed pointlessly?”

“Ser Hugh’s death had a point!” Sansa said shrilly, “He brought glory and honour to his name!”

“All the good that glory and honour will do him now,” Arya spat. She pointed to the shovel boy who had by now almost completely covered the pool of blood where Ser Hugh had lain just moments ago. A few people near them turned to look towards the commotion. “Look, they’re already ready to forget him!”

Sansa’s face was as bright as her hair.

“Arya Stark,” she hissed, “if you don’t stop being an embarrassment—”

“I won’t stop, I won’t!” Arya screamed. A good many of heads were turned now, but Arya didn’t pay them any heed. “And I won’t watch the rest either! Good riddance!”

She ran out.

Sansa stared after her. Bran bit his lip worriedly.

“I go after her,” Jon said softly, rising to his feet. He nodded to Sansa and smiled down at Bran, giving the boy’s shoulder a squeeze, “You’ve handled this very maturely. If Father were here, he’d be impressed with you. Enjoy the rest of the show, alright?”

Bran swallowed, but he nodded anyhow and gave Jon a hesitant smile.

Jon found Arya at the banks of the river just outside of the tourney grounds. She was staring out into the vast expanse of wood just beyond the stream, legs wrapped against her chest and a sullen look on her face. Her dress was as muddy as the ground she sat on. Jon took a seat next to her. 

“You don’t think I’m wrong, do you Jon?” Arya mumbled into her knees. “All the songs and tales are about knights at tourneys, but in that moment I just… he died for a stupid game. There wasn’t anything to it, not like Bran or Sansa said. Dead is dead.”

“It’s a murmur’s farce,” Jon agreed. He picked up one of the jaggedly pebbles buried in the banks and turned it over in his hand. He rubbed it with one thumb. “Bloody deaths occur under slaughter and in battle. It’s hard to imagine why people would choose to simulate that kind of event, isn’t it?”

“Exactly!” Arya nodded adamantly. Finally, she turned to Jon, her grey eyes challenging, “Why doesn’t anyone seem to get that?”

Jon was silent for a long moment. 

“Jon?” Arya asked timidly. She looked so uncertain.

“There’s a lot of things people will tell you,” Jon said finally, gently. “Tourneys are a way to keep one’s instincts sharp in a time of peace. They help generate good will towards the king. It is a great opportunity for nameless knights to make themselves known, or for bankrupt families to gain back their fortunes. They are a show of skill and although deaths do occur, those are simply unfortunate accidents and a risk one has to take.”  

He turned to face her and opened his palm towards her. The small layer upon the surface of the pebble he had been rubbing at was cleared away, revealing smooth crystal gleamed beneath the sunlight. 

“But you, little sister,” he continued softly, “have seen to the heart of the matter. In the end Ser Hugh’s death was a fruitless fatality, and leaves nothing but tears for the ones who knew him. If only everyone could see as clearly as you.”

Then, perhaps, he would not have to worry about the War of the Five Kings. He would not have to be concerned about he vipers in King’s Landing. He would not feel panic threaten to drown him when somebody fell in a joust. He would not feel his mind careened back to the horrors of the battles at the Wall and beyond.

Arya stared at him, wide eyed.

And then she lunged forward and nearly knocked him over with the force of her hug.

“I’m so glad,” she murmured into his ear. “I’m so glad that you’re here in King’s Landing even though Father didn’t want you to be. I’m so glad I’m not alone.”

Jon smoothed circles across her back, smiling faintly, “You’re never alone, Arya. Bran and even Sansa were worried about you when you ran off. As Father says…”

“…the lone wolf dies but the pack survives,” Arya replied with a good natured roll of her eyes as she pulled back. “I know, I know. Was Sansa really worried about me?”

“She’s still your sister,” Jon pointed out gently. Before, he had tried to keep the peace for the fact that they were trueborn and he felt guilty for being between them. Now, he realized how precious time with family was and wished for Arya not to regret her relationships when they were older.

Arya sighed, “I suppose we’ll have to go back?”

Jon thought for a moment. And then he shook his head. “Not right away, no. Let’s wait until the jousts are over for the day before joining them for the feast. There’s no hurry.”

“Is that really okay?” Arya asked doubtfully.

Jon let out a laugh. He tugged at her sodden dress and gestured at his own muddy trousers. “Personally, I feel no urgency to hear the lecture Septa Morgane is likely to give us for ruining our clothes.” 

Arya’s face lit up. “Ha! I bet she’ll say—”

“—that we two are more like spider monkeys than children,” Jon parroted back, in an imitation of the lofty voice of the septa. 

They looked at each other and burst into laughter.

Septa Morgane, as it turned out, had much more resources than either of them anticipated.

“Will you look at the state of you,” she scowled for one last time after giving them a lecture that seemed to last an hour. They had made their way back to the rest of their family when night fell upon the tourney, and their siblings had already gone in for the feast. “It’d be right for you both not to attend tonight, but I can’t spare anyone to walk you home. Wait here. I’m going to see if I can borrow some clothing for you two to wear during the banquet.”

She was indeed able to borrow some clothing, and although they didn’t fit as well as Jon’s and Arya’s previous attire, they were ‘respectable enough’ to attend the king’s feast.

“I wouldn’t mind missing the banquet,” Arya grumbled to Jon as Septa Morgane led them to their places of honour beside the high dais of the king’s. “It’s just a gathering for a bunch of stuffy lords and ladies, isn’t it? I would rather have a small dinner with you and Father.”

They were given a place of honour at the table beside the king’s. Nearly the entirety of the king’s small council sat with him, as well as a few members of his kingsguard, and a few faces that Jon did not know. The Queen was seated to his left, expressionless as she listened to the jibes being traded around her. Occasionally she threw a glare at the dwarf not far from the king’s position. Tyrion Lannister laughed and joked with King Robert like the best of them, even managing to drag his brother into some of his quips. Joffrey sat beside his mother despite the fact that all other attendees were at least ten years older than he. 

“Joffrey looks radiant tonight,” Sansa sighed. “I wish that he had sat with us. Do you think he’s still mad at me?”

Jon did not have the heart to tell her that Joffrey had likely forgotten about whatever wrong it was that Sansa had done to him and was simply more interested in his father than he was in women.

Despite Arya’s complaints, she did seem to enjoy the feast. Jon did too. The food was heavenly and the entertainment made it easy to forget the troubles of the world. For a brief moment Jon could almost understand the appeal in living for things like this.

But then reality crashed when King Robert rose to his feet and thundered out a loud ‘No!’ to the queen. He drew everyone’s attention. 

“You do not tell me what do do, woman!” The king’s face was red as he shook his goblet of wine at the queen. “I am the king here, do you understand? I rule here, and if I say that I will fight tomorrow, I will fight!”

Jon’s table were not the only ones that were staring. Everyone in the vicinity had stopped what they were doing to watch the conflict. Tyrion looked up from his cups with a strange expression on his face. Joffrey had gone utterly pale.

It was then that the queen rose. Unlike her husband however she did not scream or even speak at all, instead spinning on her heel and gliding away from the table, her servants trailing behind her. Jon caught a glimpse of her face in the candlelight however. It was an icy mask of fury. 

Jaime Lannister put a hand on the king’s shoulder, but the king shoved him away hard. Jon saw the knight’s body tense and the instant when Jaime decided to allow the attack. He stumbled and fell.

The king guffawed, “The great knight. I can still knock you in the dirt. Remember that, Kingslayer. Give me my hammer and not a man in the realm can stand before me!”

“As you say, Your Grace,” Jaime murmured as he brushed himself off. Slowly, he rose back to his feet. Tyrion’s face was dark, and Jon’s was no better.

Tyrion turned to the king with a forced smile and muttered something which defused the situation, and then all was calm again. Everyone at the king’s table attempted to get back into good humour again, but not one of them looked like they had forgotten what had happened.

“Oh poor Joffrey,” Sansa uttered softly. “To see his father lose his temper like that… what it must be like for him.”

“They deserve each other,” Arya said darkly, glaring at them both. “Don’t you forget what Joffrey’s done to Nymeria and Summer and Lady… They’re the same.”

But they weren’t, Jon thought to himself as Arya and Sansa began another argument over it. He regarded the two royals closely. He had spent some time with Joffrey now and was well acquainted with the prince’s temper. It was snide and cruel and ever present, but could be hidden under layers and layers of manner. King Robert was different. His was an explosive anger which dissipated as quickly as it came, and he did not seem capable of holding back.

The only thing they seemed to share was that they were terrible rulers. 

_Is that why the king hates Joffrey despite the fact that he tries so hard to please him_? Jon mused cheerlessly. It was certain that Joffrey took after the queen more than his father. And it was true that Robert Baratheon was hardly impressed with his queen despite her beauty and her regality.

But it seemed like such a stupid reason. Robb, Sansa, Bran, and Rickon all took after Lady Catelyn and Ned still loved them the—

And then Jon’s eyes widened, for Joffrey and King Baratheon did not simply look ‘hardly’ alike, but _nothing_ alike. He had not noticed it before, but now, seeing them sitting side by side, it was unmistakable. The hair and the eyes were obvious traits of difference, but the jaw, the eyebrows, the nose, the forehead… none of it was identical. The two shared not one feature between them.

Horror settled in his stomach, and a chill passed down his spine despite the warm summer air. 

Quickly Jon sought out Tommen and Myrcella, and found with a sinking heart that they were the same. Unbidden, the outrageous rumours of the future were whispered into his ear. He remembered Varys and his strange comment about Joffrey, and the task that Jon had been set on. Gendry’s face rose from the murky depths of his mind. It seemed so impossible that Jon wanted to laugh. 

But he could not laugh, because by the gods it made sense.

_They are not his children,_ Jon realized dully. In the background, loud laughter rippled across the tables as the fool tumbled off his donkey and lumbered over to fight his friend with a banana. _That is the great secret which cost my father his life._

 


	10. Chapter IX

The tone of the entire tourney had changed for him. When Septa Morgane finally declared that it was far too late for children to be out and escorted them back into the city, Jon could only follow in a trance. ****

He could not think the entire time they spent riding back. Thankfully his siblings too were tired from the day’s excitement and were half asleep themselves, so they didn’t notice his change in mood.

When Jon got to bed, he lay awake for a long time. 

In truth, he thought blankly, it would be easy enough to resolve this. All he had to do was tell King Robert and the Lannisters would remove themselves. 

It was likely that the queen and her lover would be killed for their indiscretions, and their children obviously disinherited. Lord Tywin would be furious, but he’d not move against King’s Landing openly. There would be no reason for the other great houses to wish to depose the king, especially with a recently opened Queenship and the chance to put their own heirs on the throne.

He spent a long time thinking about what he should do.

Morning found Jon at Tyrion’s door. The castle was already abuzz with activity but he managed to dismiss Tyrion’s attendants with the assurance that he would take over. Honour dictated that he warn the queen and allow her the chance to first escape. But he remembered Melisandre, who held frightening power and was able to play the game of thrones just as well as any man. He would like to think Cersei innocent, but she was a woman who had lied to the kingdom for years and succeeded.

No, he could not take the chance with the queen. He did not know her well enough to predict how she would react.

He knocked thrice and waited.

There was a shuffling noise on the other side of the door, and then a _thump_ and a loud curse. More shuffling, a call of ‘just hold on a minute!’ and then Tyrion Lannister flung the door wide open, rubbing his eyes sleepily as he held back a yawn. His shirt was on backwards.

“Jon?” he asked, looking bewildered.

He will not thank me for it, Jon thought sadly as he looked onto the Lannister’s face.

Tyrion seemed to collect himself then. He wrinkled his nose and smiled lopsidedly at his aide, “Eh, drank too much of that Dornish wine. Now what are you doing here seeing to a dwarf so early in the morning? We’re quite a bit uglier at this time in the day and you needn’t have scarred your innocent eyes.”

Jon shook his head. He took a breath and told himself that he could not get caught up in Tyrion’s pace, not this time. It would not be fair to either of them. “My lord, may I come in?”

“Oh? No response to my clever quip? This must be serious.” Nevertheless, Tyrion did stand back, allowing Jon entrance. 

Jon closed the door behind him. He walked to the window and looked outside to make sure that no one was paying them undue attention. He turned back to the dwarf with an expression of upmost solemnity. “Joffrey Baratheon is the child of Cersei and Jaime Lannister. A product of incest and bastard born.”

There had been many rumours floating then about which were the height of ridiculousness—there always were. The Baratheons being cursed, a group of immortal knights, a singing ghost of a woman stealing children, dragons in the East, victims of the Red Wedding coming back from the dead to hunt Freys, trout moving in strange ways, Dornish deserts showing their travellers paradise… That a royal children were bastards had only been one rumour of many. Jon had forgotten about the story, so baseless it seemed. Certainly he had not given it any credence.

But it was true.

It had to be. On the face of it, it was not so strange. The Targaryens had long established the practice, and he had learned in his lessons that it was only because there was no sister close to Rhaegar’s age that he married outside the family. 

The queen’s children showed no other traits except that of her own. It was too much of a coincidence for it to have happened three times. It could only mean the one thing. 

“What?” Tyrion croaked.

“I discovered it yesterday,” Jon continued. He knew that if he slowed he would never be able to say what he needed to. “All three of the queen’s children—they do not take after the king at all. There is no doubt.”

Tyrion sat down hard. His face was pale. “You—why do you—”

There was a long stretch of silence.

“What proof do you have?” Tyrion whispered.

“None except history,” Jon admitted. “I have looked into the Baratheon family lines, and all have had black hair and dark eyes. I believe I even met a bastard of the king’s, and he looks like the very image. In comparison, it’s easy to believe that Joffrey and the others belong to somebody else.”

Jaime Lannister had broken his vows and had done it in the most terrible way possible, just as he had once before to save the lives of millions and had paid for it every single day since. It was the same golden knight who smiled like broken glass and allowed an unworthy king, then and now, to humiliate him without hostility. 

 _Would this have been easier if I had never come to know them?_ Jon wondered. _Or would I have simply acted more blindly?_

“So no proof then,” Tyrion muttered. “How do you know this might not just be some genetic defect? How are you sure that Cersei’s children belong to my older brother? Cersei has many friends in King’s Landing. Can you truly go to King Robert with such hearsay?”

Jon hesitated. Why did it sound as if Tyrion were… 

“My lord,” the bastard asked, hoping beyond hope he was wrong, “are you asking me to conceal what I have found?”

Tyrion’s jaw clenched.

“You knew,” Jon realized, shock rippling through him. But it made sense, and worse, it was completely understandable. “How could you not? They are your siblings after all.”

Tyrion ran a hand through his hair and glanced at Jon, looking annoyed. “Yes, I had guessed. It’s terrible and it’d be treason _if it were true_. Are you really going to sentence my family to death over a suspicion you have?”

Jon was silent for a moment, and then— “If my father brings it up to his childhood friend, Robert Baratheon will not doubt it.”

Tyrion’s eyes went wide.

Jon looked away.

“I had thought you the best part of Stark and whatever your mother was,” Tyrion said finally, his voice bitter, “but now it’s clear to me that you’re the worst of both.”

“I’m just trying to prevent a bloody war,” Jon said tiredly. “My father will find out—you know he will. That’s what he’s been investigating all this time. And when he does find out he will tell King Robert anyway. His honour will allow him to do no less.”

It became very clear what had to have happened in King’s Landing in the past. His Father must have uncovered the horrible truth and the Lannisters moved to seal ranks. Jon had certainly learned the Lannister names in the past few weeks well enough with Tyrion, and although at the time he had not thought of it, there were a disturbing number of them in the Red Keep. 

It must have been what killed Eddard Stark the first time. Actually, now that Jon thought about it, he realized with a chill that it may have been what killed King Robert.  

“Except—” Jon said slowly, “Except he’d tell the Queen first, because that’s also the type of man he is. He’d give her fair warning. And of course she would have to act. And then King Robert would be dead and the Iron Throne would be anyone’s for the taking.”

“And so?” Tyrion asked snidely, “You’re instead telling me rather than my beautiful sister? You’re telling the monstrous imp who isn’t under the death sentence?”

“I was hoping that you would have some method of ensuring you and your siblings’ disappearance without letting them know the reason.”

“You are asking me to betray my family.”

“Better betrayal them than for them to end up dead,” Jon said wisely.

Tyrion’s lips thinned. “How much time do I have?”

“A week. And then I will go to Robert.”

“A bloody week. Horse shit can’t be cleaned in a bloody week.”

“Any longer and I can’t guarantee my father’s lack of exposure.”

“Guarantee your father’s—” Tyrion leapt to his feet, looking incensed. “I brought you to King’s Landing to protect your family, and you have set things up to destroy mine!”

“I know.” Jon closed his eyes. “I can’t apologize enough—”

“Do you think I care about your apologies at this point?” Tyrion spat. He jerked the door open and pointed into the hallway. “Get out! I don’t want to hear your two-faced excuses anymore.” 

Jon opened his mouth—

“Leave,” Tyrion hissed. “Or so help me, I’ll show you how much of a Lannister I am too.”

The boy swallowed, and with a nod, he scurried out of the dwarf’s room. But Tyrion caught his arm as he passed. 

The dwarf’s eyes were narrowed, “Don’t you dare go to the king before the week is done.”

Jon’s eyes widened, “Tyrion… are you…” 

“Oh bugger you Starks,” Tyrion said viciously. “I don’t bloody well forgive you. More honour than sense, the lot of you! Jon Snow, I hope I’ve seen the last of you.”

And then he slammed the door in Jon’s face.

Jon’s lips twitched. It was not a happy smile that spread across his face, but it was a smile nonetheless. Their friendship was irrevocably splintered—another sacrifice in this game of thrones, but at the very least, Tyrion seemed willing to follow his instruction.

The dark haired boy closed his eyes and took a breath. He hated this so much.

He waited the week. He did not know how Tyrion had done it. The time where the Lannister heir confided in him had long passed. But Jaime and Cersei and Tommen were heading for Casterly Rock.

He thought about how he should approach King Robert. He thought about whether he should do it at all. 

“Father,” Jon asked softly after dinner the next day, “what do you think of Joffrey as a ruler?”

Ned, who had been cleaning up some of his papers, looked curiously at Jon, “What makes you ask that?”

“It is nothing,” said Jon with a shake of his head. “It’s just that I have recently come to know him, and I wonder what kind of king he will be.”

“It is not our place to question it,” Ned replied tiredly. “It is his right to rule.”

“But only because it is his right?” Jon asked sharply.

Ned peered at Jon curiously then, “What is this about?”

Jon was silent for a brief moment, and then—“He not a bad child. If he can learn certain temperaments, I do not think he’d be a terrible ruler.”

Ned paused. His gaze was full of wonder as he regarded Jon.

“I think,” Ned said softly, “that you are something quite amazing for finding sympathy for that boy when so many others have already given up on him. I am not sure I am the same.”

Jon’s heart thumped loudly in his chest, “You wouldn’t wish for Joffrey’s rule?”

The look his father gave him was long and thoughtful. 

“What is it?” Jon asked.

“It is nothing,” Ned said, shaking his head. But he looked away then, and there was something sad in his eyes. “Just old regrets.”

Jon went to King Robert that evening.

“I have a message from my lord father,” Jon murmured to the kingsguard who stood outside Robert’s solar. “The Hand.”

Boros Blount gave him a deeply suspicious look, but nevertheless turned and knocked on the door.

“Your majesty!” he called.

There was a shuffling sound from the other side, and then an annoyed sounding ‘come in’. Ser Blount turned the knob and gave the decorated oak a push. The resulting creak sounded deafening in the empty hallway. 

“This kid,” Ser Blount nodded at Jon. He stood half in and half out of the entrance, partially blocking Jon’s view.  “Says he’s got a message from the Lord Hand.”

Robert Baratheon was grumbling as he worked through the stack of papers on his desk, looking as if he were doing little more than simply signing his name. “What, Ned doesn’t want to come see me himself? That’s a right shame, since he’d find me doing my kingly duties and would see how much shit I have to deal with.”

He glanced up then.

“If you do not wish for the interruption, Your Majesty,” Ser Blount said respectfully, “I will gladly send the brat away.”

But Robert had gone still. His eyes were wide and his jaw slackened as he looked past Boros Blount to the interloper. “Ned…?” Hurriedly he shook his head, but his voice was soft and something within it felt naked, like Jon and Ser Blount should not have heard. “No, it’s no longer that time. Ah, but doesn’t it bring me back…”

United in a moment of hesitation, Jon and Ser Blount looked at each other, unsure of what to say.

“Your Majesty…?” Jon started.

Robert Baratheon seemed to regain control of himself and straightened, waving Jon’s concern away, “No need to look so scared, boy. You must be Ned’s natural son. It’s too strange seeing that expression on Ned’s frozen face. Come in.”

Jon nodded silently, moving forward.

Robert made a dismissive motion towards Ser Blount. “Go on then. I’ll be safe with him. Ned had some pretty high praises for the child. Of course, it was all ‘I am glad he was able to help Ser Lannister’, but something like that means a lot from him.”

Boros Blount looked like had swallowed a particularly acrid lemon, but nevertheless bowed his head and slid out, shutting the door behind him.

“You know,” Robert said as he looked Jon over. “I was surprised to hear that old Ned had fathered a child out of wedlock, considering how much he disproves of me doing such things. Oh he never says it of course, but I can tell that he doesn’t view it with the same fond exasperation as he did before I married the Lannister wrench. But ah, Lady Ashara Dayne was a beauty.”

Jon, who had come to this room with a very specific goal in mind, startled despite himself. “Ashara Dayne?”

The king let out a booming laugh, “Aye. I suppose if he’d break his vows for anyone, it’d be for her.”

Jon swallowed thickly. His opened his mouth to speak but found that his voice was stuck. He swallowed again. “You think Lady Dayne was… was my mother?”

Robert’s eyes widened as realization flowed across his face. Suddenly he looked very hesitant. “Ned uh, Ned hasn’t spoken to you about it yet? Then I can’t… look, gods, I’m sorry. I would have thought you’d grown up hearing stories about her.”

His father did not speak of it, and the servants were always quiet whenever he arrived. He hadn’t realized how much he wanted to hear about her until now, when he was presented with a possibility so tantalizing it was impossible not to seize it. 

“Could you… could you tell me about her?” He blurted out before he knew what he was saying.

The expression on the king’s face was surprisingly kind. “Can’t go against Ned, boy. You should talk to him about it. But Ashara Dayne was a lady. You needn’t worry about low birth.”

Jon wanted to argue against it. To keep pushing. It was the first hint of a clue to his past and he _needed to know_. It didn’t matter that this was the king in front of him. All that mattered was that the man before him knew his mother.

And he took a shuddering breath, “I—yes, of course, you’re right. I’m sorry.”

“No need for an apology. I fumbled that. Now, what did your father want?”

And here was the hard part. His hand fisting and unfisting at his side, Jon tried valiantly to shove the vestiges of his uncertainty concerning Ashara Dayne to the side. He met Robert’s gaze unflinchingly, “Actually Your Majesty, Lord Tyrion sent me. I used my father’s name to get through the door, and also because Lord Tyrion would like to keep his involvement in the matter a secret if he can.”

“Tyrion?” Robert asked, confusion colouring his features. 

Jon nodded. The lies came easily to his lips, weaving a tale he had spent hours crafting. “Yes. Lord Tyrion has recently come across some troubling news. Your Majesty, I beg you, listen until the end…”

And so he gave his evidence. He made it seem as if Tyrion had overheard something between his siblings, and was torn between family and duty. In the end, the dwarf had entrusted Jon with informing the king in order not to raise the suspicions of the queen.

It was a load of horse shit. If Tyrion ever found out Jon spun this tale, he’d be furious. He hadn’t asked to be portrayed as a traitor, but it was the only thing Jon could think of to save Tryion’s life and title. That, and using Tyrion’s name added credence to Jon’s accusations. He was miring himself in filth, and he didn’t think there’d ever be coming back from this, but he’d already put himself on this path and so he would walk it.

Robert showed incredulity at first, and then a mixture between outrage for Jon suggesting that his wife had cuckholded him and pity for the boy, likely believing Jon to be mislead by Tyrion. But he listened until the end, and his hold on his skepticism seemed to waver with every piece of information Jon put forth. 

“You’re sure—that dwarf is sure he overheard my wife?” Robert asked, face white.

Jon nodded, saying nothing more. He had given all the words he wanted to give.

“Leave me,” Robert said in a tightly controlled voice. 

Jon nodded again, and with a silent bow, departed from the king’s solar. 

In the middle of the night, he was awoken briefly by the sound of men rushing about. In the morning, it was declared that Joffrey and Myrcella Baratheon were unfit heirs and had been imprisoned. There was a bounty out for Jaime and Cersei Lannister for crimes against the state, and although the king wanted them alive, any other injury was acceptable.

Jon closed his eyes and told himself it was necessary.

He just wished it didn’t sound so much like the lies he had gotten so good at weaving.


	11. Chapter X

The next morning, Jon was summoned to his father’s solar.

For a long time, he simply stood outside the door, trying and failing to steel his nerves enough to go in. He knew it was stupid of him. He had broken one of his greatest friendships, faced down the king, and he had decided that he would take responsibility for his actions. He knew that his father would be disappointed in Jon for not confiding in him, and Jon would have no excuses.

Finally, he took a breath, and pushed open the oaken gates. Eddard Stark was waiting, standing upright behind his desk, hands clasped behind his back and a tension bleeding from his shoulders. His eyes were dark, darker than Jon had ever seen them, and his face was utterly unreadable. 

His father gestured sharply. Jon stepped forward and allowed the door to swing shut behind him. The chair which usually sat across Ned’s table had been pushed aside, forcing Jon to stand. 

“An interesting thing happened just a few hours ago,” Lord Stark’s tone was one of tightly controlled fury. “Robert called together all of the Small Council in the middle of the night and began raving of deceit and betrayal. About the Targaryens and incest. It certainly scared all of the southern lords, especially when Robert began demanding we knew and were laughing about it behind his back.”

Jon swallowed. He could almost see what had happened. The King would have paced after Jon had left, thinking and thinking over the words of Eddard’s son. He would deny it, rail against it, like any normal person, but then he would start to wonder if it was true. The King had a temper. He’d displayed that clearly the night of the tourney. He’d work himself into a fury and call all his closest councillors without care for the time or propriety, because _why did they not know_?

“Eventually,” the dark haired man continued, face grim and tone grimmer, “Robert made us aware of what he had realized. Namely, that the Queen’s children are not his children. When I took into consideration all the information I had gathered and the late Jon Arryn tasked for me, it came together. Robert could not be calmed. He demanded the heads of the Lannisters and the execution of the lion spawn who dared pretend to be his heirs.”

Jon’s eyes widened. The confidence he had felt previously shattered. Cersei and Jaime were supposed to be punished but they had known the potential repercussions of their actions. But his father was implying—

Ned’s voice was cold, “I was only just able to hold off that decree and have Robert reconsider what he wants for the children. As it is, Joffrey and Myrcella are in the dungeons, awaiting his final decision.” 

Jon flinched, “I did not think—”

“Yes,” Ned said harshly, “you did not _think_.” He breathed deeply. “Do you know why I am telling you this, Jon?” 

His fingers curling and curling at his sides, Jon shook his head. All of what Lord Stark said should have been state secrets, nothing that a mere boy should be privy to know.

“Then I shall tell you.” Ned paused. His eyes were as hard as chiselled granite.“I thought you should know the consequences to what your actions have wrought.” 

Jon sucked in a sharp breath.

“After the meeting, Robert pulled me aside. He commended me,” Ned raised a brow. There was a thread of amusement in his voice, but it was tainted, darkened by some inward sentiment. “For having such a fine young son. And yet I wonder what son would seek out the king before consulting their father, the King’s Hand.”

“It was not meant to be that, Father,” Jon said in a rush. “I’ve always taken your example into consideration. It’s just—my source of information—I was so so worried that—”

“You wish for my permission without allowing me to know what the permission is for,” Ned said tonelessly. “I’m come to realize that was what the conversation between us last night was about. You’ve become an expert manipulator, Jon. Truly, suited for the southern court. And to think I was worried about your presence here. You have made it clear that you can navigate the Red Keep better than your idiot of a father.” 

“No! Father I—”

His father sliced his hand through the air, cutting him off. “I wish to be left alone.”

Jon dropped to his knees, “Father, I am your servant. Please. Everything I’ve done has been for this family. You don’t have to forgive me, but this you must know.”

For a long moment, Ned only looked at him solemnly. Then, he sighed and turned away. “Do not kneel when you have already made me your servant today. Perhaps that relationship is more honest than the one we have now. Leave me. I cannot stand to look at you right now.”

Jon swallowed, and shakily got to his feet. He did not argue this time, and instead, unsteadily made his way out the door. It was not until he had turned the corner from the hallway of his father’s solar that he finally allowed himself to collapse.

The dark haired boy slid down the planes of the wall, body trembling. He could deny none of Lord Stark’s words.

He _had_ made his father into his agent. He’d planned on the Hand realizing the implications of his own investigations the moment the King brought up his suspicions. He’d planned for Eddard Stark to be the one to ultimately convince Robert of the incest. But this was the first time Ned had ever denied a father-son relation with Jon. 

And he could not fault Lord Stark for it. Jon had gone beyond all propriety to do what he had. He thought he had been prepared for the consequences, but he had not been prepared for this. What if his relationship with his father was splintered forever? He could not bear the thought.

He would have to make it up to his father somehow, because even after this, he could not regret what he had done. It had wrought terrible repercussions, and perhaps he should have thought about this more thoroughly, but now at least his family was safe. It did not make him feel better, but it was something.

Finally, Jon pushed himself to his feet again. Despite the fact that his limbs still trembled, that he still felt as if he were going to be ill, he knew he could no longer be the youth who could not see beyond his own, meagre, pain. Consequences had been the topic of discussion, and there was yet one more that Jon had to settle.

He wiped his face, took some breaths to calm down, and inspected himself in a nearby mirror. When his appearance was at last satisfying enough, he made his way down to the dungeons. The guards recognized him as the son of the King’s Hand, a fact which filled Jon with equal guilt and relief. He was glad that his father had not yet warned them of Jon taking liberties with his title, but he also knew that it had only been a matter of a failure to remember, not because Ned trusted Jon.

He found Joffrey and Myrcella huddled in the corner of their cell. Princes and princesses, or even lords when they were held captive, were usually given the treatment of a locked but ultimately comfortable room. Yet the children were not that. They were bastards of incest, children of misfortune.

Joffrey looked up at the sound of another’s arrival, green eyes hard and face set in cold anger. He was still wearing the silken bedclothes from the night, by now filthy and ragged in its appearance. His expression however, changed when he saw _who_ it was. Foolish, misguided hope flickered across wary features.

“Jon?” Joffrey asked timidly. And gods, Jon had wondered if he’d ever hear a humble word from the blond menace, but now that it had come to pass, he wished it hadn’t. Joffrey cleared his throat and straightened, sounding almost commanding, if it weren’t for the terror underlying his voice. “What’s going on?”

Sniffling, Myrcella looked up from her place at her brother’s side. She had her head buried in his chest, arms tightly clinging around his waist. It was a blessing to have put the children together and away from the criminals, but that was it. Neither of them deserved this.

Jon swallowed. He moved up to the bars of the cell, gripping a hand around cold iron. His heart felt as if it were going to burst from his chest. Gods, it was worse than he thought. His father was right. He hadn’t been thinking at all. 

“I’m sorry,” Jon breathed, his fractured voice echoing in the chamber.

“They’re saying… they’re saying we’re not King Robert’s children,” Joffrey whispered brokenly. “That’s not true, is it?”

Joffrey asked the question, but Jon could see that the former lordling already had the answer. If he had not come to the same conclusion himself, how could he act so compliant now? How could he let his sister hold him like he, too, needed the support? The prince of the Seven Kingdoms would have thrown a tantrum, demanding to be let out, screaming to take the heads of those who had threatened him. 

Perhaps he had done that, before even he could no longer block the whispers of the guards. Joffrey wouldn’t calm for a while, but eventually he would get tired, and eventually his thoughts would turn to darker things. By the time morning dawned, he would be unclear himself. The doubts which always plagued him about whether he was good enough for his father would engulf him. And he was not currently strong enough to bear them.

Looking at the boy’s desperate face, Jon wanted more than anything to say he did not know. In truth, he was not 100% certain. It never was with such things. Perhaps the three children of Cersei Lannister were simply an anomaly in the Baratheon family tree. Perhaps the traits of their father was simply hidden deeper within than was immediately obvious.

But he could not say it. Not only would it have come sounding hollow from him, who had been the one to incite King Robert into this action, but Joffrey did not deserve that pity. He had been a prince, and he deserved the respect for one. More than that, Jon knew about uncertainty. His own uncertainty over his personal lineage had always been the thing that hurt most when he overheard the servants talk, or when Theon ridiculed him. He could not leave Joffrey in that uneasy, vague state of pointless conjecture. 

“It likely is,” Jon said softly. “There’s a lot of evidence that your mother had an affair with the member of the Kingsguard, Jaime Lannister.”

The right words came easily. He knew that Joffrey and Myrcella knew well exactly who their uncle was. Yet he’d made a point to mention Jaime’s credentials, and to neglect to mention the fact that he was the Queen’s brother. The best way to phrase an ugly statement came without prompt, without thought. Jon almost made it sound like a knightly love affair, rather than the deplorable act of treason that it was. He wished the situation was as easy as his words.

Joffrey drew in a sharp breath. Myrcella let out a little gasp, her hands flying to her mouth in horror.

Jon explained the situation to them as best he could. Joffrey screamed denials, and Jon did not refute him. But Myrcella did. She was strong even when she began crying, not quite able to take it anymore. Joffrey glanced at her in alarm before simmering down. His expression was still mulish, but he no longer argued. Jon could see that Joffrey too believed Jon’s words, but he didn’t want to acknowledge them. 

“That bitch,” Joffrey snarled. “How dare she put us in a position like that? Can’t Cersei see that by indulging in her own sins she’s cast _us_ into doubt?”

“Do not call your mother that,” Jon commanded sharply. Yet, even so, he was glad to see this angry Joffrey over the shattered one from before. “No matter what she has done, she has still given life to you, and she loves you.”

If there had been one thing immediately obvious upon his arrival in the Red Keep, it was that Cersei Lannister loved her children. She might not have been the best at raising them, but everything from her indulgences to the way she looked at them told any observer where her heart truly lay.

Surprisingly, it was not Joffrey who responded, but Myrcella.

“No, she doesn’t!” Myrcella screamed, pulling away from her brother and rising wildly to her feet. “Mother doesn’t love _us_. She loves Joffrey! And she mustn’t even love him that much, because she left us! She left us here to rot while she ran away with her lover! She never considered us human beings, only as a way of revenge against her father! She doesn’t care what happens, _she never did_.”

Jon and Joffrey turned as one, shocked. Myrcella was panting harshly, her tiny body heaving with every breath. The angry retort seemed to die on Joffrey’s lips.

She sat down. “I’m sorry,” she hiccuped, her voice sounding small. “I didn’t mean that—It’s just that it’s so hard to sleep in this cell, and I’m tired and I… I didn’t mean that.”

It was obvious that she did mean it. But it was also obvious she _was_ exhausted.

“Your father… King Robert may be angry now, but he does love you both,” Jon said gently. “He’ll come to realize that you’ve both done no wrong and he’ll release you. Your mother knows that.” He coughed, and he too lowered himself to the floor, crossing his legs. “But until then… I may have a way to help you sleep.”

He recalled Old Nan. He remembered standing beside Arya’s crib and trying to emulate his nurse. He remembered the lullabies.

“Close your eyes,” he whispered. “And imagine…” And then, he began to sing. Softly at first, but slowly gaining volume, about the clear blue skies and the lush green fields. About rolling plains and drifting clouds. About the world outside and about the peaceful grassland, where anyone could descend from their horse and take a nap. Where status and residence did not matter, only the tranquil meadows where all could dream… 

His voice tapered off at the end, until there was only quiet in the little cell.

“It’s beautiful, Jon,” Myrcella murmured sleepily. Soon, she was slumbering peacefully beside Joffrey. 

Joffrey and Jon exchanged a look. Joffrey nodded, looking tired, and Jon slipped away. He knew that Joffrey did not really believe him about Robert, and had only refrained from arguing on account of his sister, but he could not say more. Jon would figure out a way to get those two out of this—perhaps talk to King Robert again—but until then, all his words would sound empty. 

He found the Spider standing at the entrance of the dungeons, frozen in the doorway.

For the first time since Tyrion had pointed out the spider to Jon, Varys looked stunned, “This song… it was you?”

Shock lined every inch of his voice. The plump man’s eyes were wide as he stared at Jon, as if he were seeing the boy for the first time.

“Yes?” Jon said with no small amount of confusion. He found that he was not surprised that Varys was here, if not a little annoyed, but he could not understand for the life of him why the Spider was focusing on that insignificant detail.

A complicated expression passed over the Spider’s face, “How nostalgic. I wonder how…” He quieted. “Who did you say your mother was?”

“I didn’t,” Jon said warily, the reply automatic. And then the strangeness of the Spider’s question hit him, and Jon straightened, grey eyes going wide. All thoughts of plays and politics fled.“Did you know my mother?”

The look Varys gave him was utterly inscrutable.

“I had only seen her once,” Varys said softly, “but she was… most memorable.” 

Jon’s heart beat loudly in his chest. The last thing he expected after the events of today was this. “Her name?”

“If Lord Stark has kept it from you,” Varys demurred, “far be it from me that you hear the name from.” He paused then, and a wry smile twined across his lips, “But I can tell you that she was a great lover of music.”

A great lover of music, Jon thought. Was she a singer? If Varys had remembered her then she must have been talented. The name, Ashara Dayne, came to his mind again. He obviously could not ask his father now, but the king had sounded so sure.

_Do I sing like her?_ Jon wondered suddenly. Something warm and hopeful unfurled in his chest. He had never been much interested in song, but if it was a connection to his mother…

And then he shook his head, for this was not the time for such thoughts.

“You knew,” Jon mused. “You knew that the queen’s children were not borne from King Robert, didn’t you?”

“I had heard a whisper of it,” Varys acquiesced. “But I was hesitant to believe it due to… the source. I had hoped you or your father could uncover the truth of the matter, and did not wish to bias you with preconceived opinions.”

“And your source was Jon Arryn?” Jon asked.

Varys hesitated.

“It was not Jon Arryn, no,” Varys said slowly. “In fact I believe that the former Hand himself received information from this source. I am in fact speaking of Lord Baelish.”

“The Master of Coin?” Jon asked in surprise. Petyr Baelish had been the last person Jon thought would be involved in this.

Varys shrugged elegantly, his silk robes barely rising with the motion. “I know not where Lord Baelish came upon this intelligence, but he has certainly made it known. He has done it with the upmost subtlety of course. If it were not for you exposing the truth and the reactions I heard afterwards, I doubt I would have found out about it at all.”

Jon’s mind raced. He had seen his father spending time with the Master of Coin, and Petyr Baelish had made a good impression on them all. 

The boy of five-and-ten looked away, lips thinning, “What is his purpose?”

“That, I’m afraid,” Varys answered with a rueful smile, “even I do not know.”

“Is he shrewd enough to hide from even you?” Jon asked curiously.

“There are many things which are hidden from me,” Varys said wisely. “The trick is to not allow anybody to realize it.”

Jon thought about it, and agreed. It was only long after Varys left that he realized how strange it was for the spymaster to have said as much to him. The Spider had let Jon know many things in the course of their conversation that Jon was sure Varys would have never brought up to anyone else. Did the Spider see him as an ally still? Was there still more things to be done?

Jon felt very tired. Denouncing the Lannisters had already taken most of his energy, and following that had come the confrontation with his father and the former royal siblings. He felt as if he had not slept for days and that the stress of what he still had to do would drown him.

Leaving the dungeon corridors, he made to be alone. He knew that he had to plan a way to free Joffrey and Myrcella soon. He owed them that. But he felt drained and the brief discussion about his mother had only served to temporarily lift the heaviness within him He needed a moment to breathe.

He spent some time in a secret alcove he’d found weeks prior. Before he knew it, the sun had set.

He set out for the kitchens afterwards, grabbing some bread and meats from the servants. He recognized that he’d missed the timing for dinner, which brought out within him mixed feelings. On one hand he was relieved he did not have to face Lord Stark again, or for his siblings to pick up on his awkwardness. On the other hand he hadn’t meant to seem like he had been running away, which he knew Lord Stark would disdain and see this absence as.

He had a troubled sleep, full of dreams which he did not remember by the time he awoke.

But he did feel better the next day. Without Tyrion, Jon no longer had duties around the castle, but the servants of the Red Keep had come to know him now and he spent the day feeling out Robert’s reception to his children. 

That is, until the horns sounded throughout the castle.

“What’s going on?” Jon asked of the guard who he’d been nearest to at the time.

“Hunting party’s returned,” the guard replied. He looked down at Jon and smiled. “This sequence is always played when the royal hunt has come back successful. You’re looking to a feast tonight, boy.”

But the king had not gone out hunting. Jon knew that for sure.  

Hurriedly, he ran to a window. He peered outside, and paled.

There was indeed a returning hunting party, but not of the conventional kind. The king’s guards were riding into the castle, two very familiar, very muddied captives in their midsts. 

_How?_ Jon thought with alarm, pushing past the crowd of servants that had begun to gather and rushing towards the throne room. He got there before the retinue of soldiers did, but the guards to the throne room blocked the entrance to him. 

It was just then that King Robert stormed past, face set in an expression of fury. His eyes flickered briefly to Jon however and with a snap of his wrist, he gestured for the boy to follow. Given permission by the king, the sentinels lowered their spears, allowing Jon to jog after the enraged monarch.

Jon’s heart was pounding in his chest, even as he took his place among the other servants who had been allowed in. King Robert sat on his throne, tall and regal despite his girth. A great many of people trickled through, including all the members of the Small Council. Lord Stark’s eyes found Jon as he passed the doors, and his face was stone. Jon couldn’t afford to let himself be distracted by it however. He had to know _how this had happened_.

A few minutes later, and the hunting party burst through the door. Robert made a gesture, and the guards threw Cersei Lannister to his feet. Gasping, she picked herself up, where they then snatched her arms and forced her into a kneeling position. Like that, Cersei could not move.

“Well?” Robert asked, his voice as frosty as the northern winds. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

Cersei only raised her chin high, green eyes glittering and not an inch cowed. Jaime, who was placed a few paces to the right, had surged forward when they’d knocked his sister down. The three guards restraining him held him back however, and even gave him another kick in the gut for his troubles. This close, Jon could see the bruises that streaked over the knight, though the queen’s pale skin was as unblemished as ever. 

“Where is Joffrey?” Cersei demanded.

“You dare ask about him?”

“I have heard ridiculous rumours that he is in the dungeons! And that you plan to execute him!” Cersei spat. “At least tell me that isn’t true!”

King Robert sneered then. It was an ugly expression. “I have never lied, unlike some.”

Cersei gasped, the meaning of Robert’s words making themselves clear, “Joffrey is your heir.”

Robert’s eyes were chips of black ice, “But not, my son, correct?”

The Queen’s breath caught in her throat. Her body had gone utterly still, and for a moment Jon could see her consider trying to talk her way out of this. Trying to figure out how to spin a tale that would pit Robert against whoever had dared to inform her of ‘such lies’. He saw her consider it, and discard it completely.

Cersei’s back straightened, and there was not a trace of regret on her face as she answered, “Yes, they are not your children. And I thank the gods for that every day.”

She was not stupid by any means, and so she had to have realized there was no escape. It was no secret that the King and Queen hated each other, and she knew she could not convince him over a source whom had been able to make him reconsider his heirs. Even if Robert had been mistaken, he could not take back his word after he had dragged her out in front of the servants and the entire Small Council. Robert had too much pride. Thus, she had chosen pride in herself.

Robert’s knuckles were white. “You are charged with treason and incest. How do you plead?”

“Treason?” Cersei sneered. “And what treason is that, when you spend all your available nights with whores. As for incest… why not? The Targaryens wed brother to sister for three hundred years, to keep the bloodlines pure. And Jaime and I are more than brother and sister. We are one person in two bodies. We shared a womb together. What’s wrong with it?”

Robert surged to his feet. His face was turning purple from his fury. “The Targaryens were murders and rapists! They were evil and perverted! If you want to be a Targaryen so badly you can die like one!”

Cersei let out an ear splitting laugh. It might have sounded hysterical if it were not so mocking. 

“Only you think that about the Targaryens,” Cersei snarled, “and I bet everyone else secretly wishes that it was Rhaegar that won that day at the Trident. He was always twice the man you were—no, ten times! In fact I wouldn’t be surprised if Lyanna Stark ran off with Rhaegar and willingly made love to him! I know I would have!”

The next minutes happened so quickly it was almost impossible to comprehend. Impossible to predict. Robert roared, grabbing the handle of one of the axes displayed on the walls and bringing down the weapon on Cersei’s head. Blood spurted into the air as the Queen’s body jerked, and went limp in the arms of the guards. Somebody screamed. Jaime howled and broke through the grip of his captors, kneeing them in the privates and freeing one of their swords in one single motion. He charged the king, who turned to face him, but Jaime was not the finest knight in the realm for nothing.  

Unblemished silver slid home, into the bulging stomach and out through the back. 

Robert Baratheon gurgled, his axe slipping from his fingers. Jaime pulled out the sword in the same movement and the king fell backwards. 

Jon cried out and staggered forward, but nobody paid him any mind. 

The room had exploded into chaos. The guards were on Jaime, pulling Jaime back and forcing him to his knees. The King’s Hand was shouting for the maester, demanding that everyone calm to help the King. A maid went hysterical, breaking out into loud, wailing sobs which served as a backdrop to nearly everything. The guards were moving. The Queen’s body was being dragged away. And through it all, Robert laid completely still beside his throne.

_How—how_? He kept thinking, mind fuzzy with static. He could not move. Could hardly even breathe. He had to be dreaming. It felt like a dream. Because no, _no_ , this simply couldn’t _be_.

_You know nothing, Jon Snow,_ Ygritte whispered into his ear.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly guys, I don’t even know how I got this chapter out. I’m not a purist regarding the show. I liked most of the changes in season 4 because it kept things fresh. But even if I don’t care that much about plot, I really care about characters. AFoC/ADwD had Jon and Dany attempt to strip away their identity for the good of the people they led, leading to a finale which they took back what they were to two very different, yet similar results. Sansa and Arya both try to become someone they’re not, ‘Alayne’ and ‘no one’, yet find that they cannot forget themselves. Theon and Tyrion have hit rock bottom but are both crawling their way up with the help of Penny and Jeyne, significantly nobodies, as it’s actually a very internalized journey for them. Jaime and Brienne struggle with ideals of knighthood whist traversing around the Riverlands, with Brienne ultimately finding an identity outside of being a knight and Jaime finding an identity outside of his Lannister-ness. (Weird, almost like there’s a theme or something.)
> 
> Instead, we get Jon and Dany being idiots and their very real political problems being brushed aside for clear cut anti racism/international relations terrorism agendas. Sansa gets married again and raped and descends back into that powerless girl we all thought was done with. Arya literally does nothing and really becomes a ‘no one’. Theon is ‘redeemed’ at the cost of a very real contender for the Game of Thrones. Tyrion is fun to watch but is literally the same character he was in season 1. Jaime wants to be a father despite never expressing an interest before, and apparently still loves Cersei. Brienne chooses revenge over her duty, without any sort of internal struggle. This is not to mention that Littlefinger is apparently an idiot, Stannis doesn’t care about his only heir, Varys is apparently a Targaryen supporter, Cersei is just a really nice mom, and that the whole Dorne plot is best left forgotten.
> 
> One or two of these changes would have been alright. ALL OF THEM THOUGH? The only way they could possibly redeem some of this is if Stannis was faking that his army deserting him and it was part of a greater, strategic plan. If his ‘do your duty’ to Brienne was meant to remind her that her duty was not revenge but to take care of Sansa. If Littlefinger only let Sansa marry Ramsay because her marriage with Tyrion still stood, and thus this current marriage is illegal. If somebody else actually poisoned Myrcella to get Jaime to think that Dorne is against the Lannisters when they’re really not. If the TV producers were to realize they’re not being ‘outrageously fresh’ but just plain ‘outrageous’. 
> 
> Okay the rant is over. I normally wouldn’t, but it occurred to me that since all of you are book fans, you might actually be interested. Feel free to share your thoughts, in fact I beg someone to make me see this season in a more positive light so that I can enjoy it again. Needless to say, I wasn’t very inspired this time, so Snowfall is on hiatus until Winds of Winter. I’d apologize for leaving it at this part but this kind of wraps up the first arc of the story, so it’s a fitting place to take a break. In any case, thanks for the support everyone and see you next year!


	12. Chapter XI

****Jon felt like he might be dreaming. It had all gone so badly, so fast, it didn’t feel real. He expected to wake up in the morning and hear that their father wouldn’t be coming to breakfast because the king had asked for him.

Somebody had taken Jon by the arms, and it was then that he noticed he had been struggling towards the king. Immediately, Jon stopped, going limp. He let his detainer drag him out of the bloody throne room. But he could not take his eyes off the body of King Robert, laid out like a sacrifice upon the dais.

He could not feel a thing, only the burning question which kept repeating itself in his mind like a brand. _How_ had it ended up like this?

He could not sleep that night, nor the next. He did not attend supper with his family. He could not face them after failing—still failing. For five days he practically locked himself in his room, going over everything that had happened and trying to figure out what he could have done differently. Arya and Bran both tried to make him come out, but he could not be moved even by them, and eventually they both gave up. They were familiar with his broods and evidently decided that it would be best to wait for it to blow over.

Father was too busy attending to the matters of the realm to indulge the moods of a sullen son.

On the fifth day, he slipped out of his room and to the dungeons. By now the castle had mostly calmed. News had gotten out of King Robert’s death and the people had enough time to become acclimated to it. People could acclimate to anything.

The guards let him into the cell he wanted without much question. He was the son of the Hand, and the realm was in the Hand’s grip now.

The prison was a dank place, with only two small windows at the very end, not even big enough to fit a child’s head through. Unlike Joffrey’s and Myrcella’s cell, this one did not open to the hallways, with freedom only barred by poles of iron. This room was entirely cut off from the rest of the keep. It smelt of urine.

Jon closed the iron wrought door behind him.

Jaime Lannister sat chained with his arms pulled back behind him, head bowed and breathing shallowly through his nose. Jon could tell that he was injured from the rise and fall of his chest, and the awkward angle he favoured his arm. Technically, no one was supposed to hurt a royal prisoner before their trial, but none had been too gentle in handling the kingslayer.

At the sound of the click of the door, he looked up. He did not look well. Where before he had shined in all his white and gold splendour, now he only looked washed out. His yellow hair hung damply across his brow, and his green eyes were glassy with pain. There was a large green bruise on his jaw, and his lips were smeared with blood.

“Why?” Jon asked—no, demanded. His fists clenched at his side. He felt no sympathy for the man, not after all that had happened. “Why did you come back?”

“Wha—Jon Snow?” Jaime asked, mouth half agape. Some recognition entered those hazy green eyes, and the kingsguard sat up straighter. “How are you—why are you here?”

“That’s my question!” Some black emotion, different from the bleakness from the days before, swelled in his chest. He realized it was fury. He was _furious_ at the Lannister. How dare Jaime question his place when it was Jaime who put everything at risk! How _dare_ Jaime speak something that wasn’t some incoherent apology. “You and Cersei were free! Your father would have protected you at Casterly Rock. Why did you have to come back and _destroy everything_?”

“You—” Jaime was staring at him in shock. Jon did not care. “You—you plotted with my brother.”

Jon did not reply. He glared, because the knight had still not answered him.

Jaime slumped. Green eyes fluttered shut. His voice was quiet, defeated. “I thought it was strange how Tyrion suddenly wanted to go back to Casterly Rock and take Tommen with him. Cersei did too. It’s why she couldn’t leave him alone. I guess you two planned all that, huh?”

Jon stiffened. He did not need reminders of what he had done to Tyrion. “I’m not obliged to sate your curiosity.”

“But I am?” Jaime chuckled. It was a rasp more than a sound. “Well, why not? Sweet Cersei heard about Joffrey being taken prisoner and rode back. I followed her of course. Tyrion tried to stop us but since when have we ever listened to the sensible brother? We were caught halfway through the kingswood. And then the rest… well, you saw it all.”

Yes. Yes, he had seen it all. Shakily, Jon took a step back. His back slammed against the iron door, as if cutting him off from escape from this room, from escape of his mistakes.

“By the gods,” Jon whispered brokenly. “By the gods, I thought you wanted to save people. Wasn’t that why you betrayed King Aerys? Why have you doomed them now?”

Jaime let out a laugh. It was a bitter one.

“Why have I indeed…?” He murmured. And then he shook his head, and gave his old cocky grin again, except this time it was laced with something that might have been regret. “It’s love don’t you see? I did it for love.”

“A poor excuse,” Jon spat.

“Not an excuse.” Jaime’s eyes were haunted. “A warning. Love has ruined me. Take care Jon Snow, that it does not ruin you too.”

Jon left the twice damned Kingslayer then, unable to bear looking at him any longer. Jaime Lannister had destroyed everything. In a single fell swoop of his sword, he’d destabilized Westeros again. No matter what explanation he offered, he deserved the executioner’s block.

He began attending dinner again that evening. Arya and Bran were delighted to see him. Jon could only smile weakly, offering little input and allowing the conversation of his siblings to wash over him. Father was absent entirely. Supper was led by Septa Mordane.

When Septa Mordane stepped out for a moment to speak with the cook, Arya turned to him. Her eyes gleamed with a wild delight.

“Can you believe it Jon!” She exclaimed. “Joffrey turned out to be the son of the kingslayer, and not the king’s at all! I bet now he feels dumb about all those times he went on and on about his station and how he’s not beholden to anybody. He’s in prison now, did you know?” She sniggered. “Serves him right.”

Jon opened his mouth, and found that he could not reply. By instinct he almost agreed with Arya. Had he not thought, multiple times, that Joffrey was an underserving ass? But now he had gotten to know Joffrey, had seen him and his sister in confinement, and how could he agree with Arya after that?

Thankfully, or perhaps not so thankfully, Sansa interrupted him before he was forced to make an answer.

“It’s all lies!” Sansa’s grip tightened around her fork, knuckles turning white. “Joffrey isn’t like that—he’s the rightful prince! The king had to have gone crazy or—or maybe someone was plotting against Joffrey and planted the evidence and the royal advisors gave the king some bad advice, I don’t know, but it isn’t true!”

Arya gave her sister a look of such disgust that Sansa actually flinched back from it. In Jon’s memory, Sansa had never backed down from Arya in any matter.

“You’re being delusional,” Arya spat. “Just because you want to be princess so badly you’ll pretend that everyone else is lying? Do you think Father’s wrong? The Queen herself admitted to all of it!”

Sansa seemed to shrink with every word, but then she drew herself up, sitting high and imperiously. Her glare seemed to challenge everyone, and she would have been the perfect picture of certainty, if her voice didn’t come out so shrill. “The Queen hated the king, everybody knows that! She was just trying to make him angry, and the king fool that he was killed her for it, before she could explain it. It’s probably why the king was struck dead just moments after! The gods were just punishing him for his crime!”

Arya stared at her incredulously, “Are you hearing yourself right now?”

Sansa stood up. Her plates clattered with her sudden motion. Her voice was as cold as the region in which they were born. “I’ll be leaving now. I’m full.”

Without giving them a chance to reply, Sansa turned and swept out of the dining room.

Arya let out a frustrated breath from her nostrils.

“It’s like she’s completely forgotten about Lady and Nymeria and Summer,” Arya murmured as she viciously jabbed the food in her plate. “This is justice for Micah.”

Jon found that for once, he did not know what to say to his little sister. But blessedly, he did not think she had meant for him to hear.

It was to this scene that the good Septa came back into.

She raised a brow at Sansa’s absence, but waved off the occurrence when it was revealed that she had simply retired early. It only served to incite more grumbling from Arya, because she had always been given a severe tongue lashing any time she had run out on a family dinner in the past. Jon tried to cheer her, but in truth, his heart was not in it.

“I’m going to go practice with Tweedle,” Arya muttered darkly to Jon after supper was finally concluded. “I really need to stick it to something.” And then she grinned at him, quick and mischievous. “Wanna be my target practice?”

Father hadn’t allowed Arya to practice with live steel until she had a better handle on her water dancing. Thus for their lessons with Syrio, Jon and Arya used wooden swords. Tweedle was the name the two of them had given Arya’s sprig on a particularly asinine day, and it had stuck.

Jon shook his head with a small smile, reaching out a hand to ruffle the other girl’s hair, “Wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of your wrath today, little sister. Seems dangerous.”

Arya huffed, but seemed to understand, “Just as well, I guess. I wouldn’t want to mess up that pretty face of yours just because of _Sansa_.”

Bran caught him after Arya departed.

“I’m glad you’re feeling better,” Bran said shyly, eyes cast downwards and head bowed.

“Thank you,” Jon gave a faint smile back. The twisted feeling in his gut from his visit to Jaime still had not yet dispelled, but he appreciated the sentiment.

“Is there—do you want to talk about it?” Bran asked hesitantly. His face lifted then, eyes wide as he hurriedly amended his statement. “Not that you have to or anything, just if you want to. I mean, I’m a pretty good listener. Old Nan always says so.”

It was all Jon could do to refrain from gaping. “Bran…? What’s this about?”

Bran shrugged weakly, shuffling his feet, “It’s just, you helped me before. I wanted to help, too.” Here, he blushed, but it seemed to stem more from anger than embarrassment. “It was a stupid idea, wasn’t it?”

“Not stupid, never stupid,” Jon said, touched. He reached out a hand to grasp Bran’s shoulder. “Really, thank you for your concern. If it was anything that I thought you could help with, I would definitely share it with you. As it is, it’s just your older brother’s muddled thoughts.”

Bran shook his head, “That’s what I thought about the thing with Summer too, but you _were_ able to help. So I might be able to help you, too.”

Jon closed his eyes. Their situations were too different. Jon could not possibly confide in Bran about all his worries and what he’d done. Besides which, he didn’t want to burden Bran with any of this. He thought about saying so, but knew that he could not. Bran had come to him, and if Jon were to brush him off now, he might damage all the trust they’ve developed so far.

And then, he supposed, to Bran the situations might not seem so different. How much courage had it taken Bran to make that leap of faith and entrust his secrets to Jon? Jon could not do the same but… but perhaps he could at least repay a portion of that trust. 

“Alright,” Jon said softly, opening his eyes. He smiled at Bran; a defeated, rueful kind of smile. “If you’re really sure you want to hear my concerns. You don’t have to do anything to prove your worth as a brother, you know. I’m the elder, so it’s my job to worry about you, but it’s not your job to worry about me.”

“Even so, I want to help,” Bran said determinedly.

“Then,” Jon turned away, running a hand through his hair, “I’m afraid that this—King Robert’s death I mean—will mean the beginning of a war. And we’ll be mired in it, because our father is the Hand of the King.” He shook his head, and hastily added an amendment, so as to not scare Bran excessively. “Of course, it might not come to that. The Crown’s support is large and even Tywin Lannister cannot hope to win against all our forces.”

For a long moment, there was silence.

When Bran spoke again, his voice was filled with uncertainty. “That… Jon, what if Tywin Lannister has already sent a letter, stating that he’ll go to war if his son Jaime is not returned?”

Jon whipped around, shock lancing through him. “ _What_?” 

Bran jumped, looking a little scared, “I—”

Quickly, Jon calmed himself. He took a breath, and stared at his brother solemnly, “Bran, if you know anything, please tell me.”

Bran gnawed at his lip, but gave a nod in one short, jerky motion. “I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop or anything, but I was in the mind of a bird and it was near the window of some people who were discussing it so—”

“Wait, a _bird_?” Jon interrupted, unable to help himself. He stared wide eyed, because this was too incredulous.

“Well,” Bran flushed. “You said that you could sometimes see through the eyes of your northern friend, right? So I figured that it wasn’t just limited to our direwolves, whatever this is. So I tried—and it worked.”

“That—” Jon couldn’t exactly tell Bran that his partner was a direwolf too. He had a connection with Ghost, but he hadn’t known others would be possible. Even Orell only had a connection with his eagle. Jon’s stomach turned uncomfortably. “That’s amazing, Bran.”

Bran brightened with the praise. He became more animated. “Anyway, I was practising with the bird, and I overheard some people talking about Lord Tywin’s letter. Normally I wouldn’t have paid attention, but I heard Father’s name and I thought I should make sure they weren’t doing anything bad. They were talking about how Lord Tywin’s sent a letter to the Hand asking for Ser Jaime’s life, and threatening to go to war if he was executed.”

Practising? They needed to have to have a conversation about Bran’s powers, but at a later time. Tywin Lannister’s letter was of more importance.

“Anything else?” Jon urged. “Did they say anything else? And do you have any idea who they were?”

Bran shook his head, “I’ve seen them around the castle, I think, but I don’t know their lordships or positions.” His shoulders sagged, “And sorry, they moved away after that, so if they said anything more, I didn’t hear it.”

Jon took a breath, “No, that’s more than enough.” A thought came to him. “Lord Tywin’s letter, did it say anything about Queen Cersei’s children?”

Bran wrinkled his nose, “I don’t think so.” He hesitated, “Jon—do you think they’ll be executed?”

“No.” It was ludicrous to think so. “Father would never allow it.” And yet—and yet there were more powers in King’s Landing than Father’s. Jon’s gut churned uneasily.

“Right, you’re right.” Bran slumped in relief. “I know where Arya’s coming from. I can’t forgive Joffrey either, but it’s not like I don’t understand Sansa. Tommen—he’s my friend, and I’m sure Myrcella is very nice. I don’t think they deserve to be executed.”

“No,” Jon whispered, “they don’t.”

When Jon left Bran his mind was awhirl. Was what his brother said true? Bran would not lie to him, but it was entirely possible that he’d misinterpreted what he’d heard. The bastard child found his feet carrying him without any focused command, and before he knew it he was at his father’s solar.

Jory was standing guard. Jon heard himself ask distantly if his father was entertaining anyone. Jory replied that he was not. Jon knocked. He was let in.

His father was sitting behind the Hand’s desk, dark shadows under his eyes and face pulled in a haggard expression. He had never looked older. He had been going through the realm’s documents, if the stack of papers at his side was anything to go by, but he was now giving Jon his full attention.

“Is it true?” Jon demanded—though that wasn’t what he really wanted to say. He wanted… he wanted… “Is Tywin Lannister threatening war if his son isn’t returned to him?”

Ned’s gaze sharpened, “How did you even—” He took a breath, slowly put down his pen, and gave Jon an acute, considering, look. “Should I even be surprised that you somehow know privileged information?”

Jon swallowed. So that part was true, then.

“My knowledge doesn’t matter,” Jon said softly. “The question is—how likely is Tywin to go through with this? His armies can’t possibly win against the rest of Westeros combined.”

Ned steeped his fingers together, his eyes cool as he looked upon his son. “That is a question for the council. It is not the concern of a boy of five-and-ten.”

“That—” Jon heard more than felt himself stumble back a step. For some reason, he hadn’t expected that. He should have, but he didn’t. It was true, though. Why should the Hand trust a mere boy, and a boy who had already messed it up at that?

He opened his mouth to apologize. To excuse himself. To leave with some propriety intact.

“Please. _Please_ , Father.” Jon’s voice was choked. “I can’t—”

Something passed over his father’s visage. Ned dragged a hand across his face, and sighed.

“Fine, fine,” Ned said, tone gruff. He stood up, the motion sharp, sending a few papers fluttering to the ground. He walked towards the window, leaning against its side and gazing out into the courtyard. “I don’t know what you could even do with this information. Tywin is not the type of man to back down. He will go to war. He will depend on the Martels and the Tyrells delaying until the main battles have already been fought. The Vale has been silent, and the North will take time to gather. But Stannis and Riverrun will be enough to stop Tywin for now.”

Except that they wouldn’t. Jon remembered Stannis’ forces. They were well disciplined, which made the wildlings an easy opponent for them, but they were not large enough to match the armies of Casterly Rock. Riverrun would have its own problems being in the pathway between Tywin and King’s Landing, needing to defend its own territories as well as attack. Victory was not so certain.

“What about Jaime Lannister, then?” Jon asked quietly.

“I knew you were going to ask that,” Ned said in exasperation, finally turning back to look at Jon. “I will give him the King’s Justice. It is what he deserves.”

Jon swallowed. He felt like he was betraying everything they stood for. “Father—you can’t.”

Ned’s eyes darkened to whirling pools of black. “What do you mean, I can’t?”

“You can’t kill Ser Jaime. He—”

“Ser!” Ned slammed his hand against the window sill. Jon tensed, but thankfully did not jump. “I know you’ve become friendly with the Lannisters, Jon, but open your eyes! He killed the king! I knew Robert shouldn’t have spared him fifteen years ago.”

That wasn’t fair. Jaime had done wrong now, but back then, back then it hadn’t been—He wished to tell his father, so badly. But what would it change? What difference would it make? “That was a different situation! This time… this time I know Jaime did wrong. But Tywin Lannister won’t forgive you if killed him. You’re the Hand now, so you have to think of the realm. To keep the peace—”

“Keep the peace?” Ned roared. “He killed my best friend!”

Jon took a step back, eyes wide.

Ned exhaled, lifting a hand to his face. “Sorry—I’m sorry for that outburst. It’s been a stressful few days.”

“I…”

“But you don’t make it easy.” Ned smiled wanly. “In any case, I cannot release Jaime. It would be a disservice to us all.”

Jon was scared to continue. And yet he had to. He swallowed. “You would doom the realm to war.”

“A short war. Do not think I enjoy the thought any more than you, but it the situation is not as dire as you imagine. Have some confidence in us, Jon.”

“There’s more than that,” Jon pushed. “Tywin might not be able to raise allies, but Casterly Rock is a formidable force nonetheless. More importantly, do you really think Renly Baratheon would accept Stannis’ rule? If the kingdom isn’t united, it’ll dissolve into chaos again!”

“And now you’re pulling stories out of thin air,” Ned said with an incredulous laugh. He held up a hand. “No, don’t protest. It’s alright, I’m a bit beyond anger now. In some ways I can almost be proud of you for going so far in trying to keep the peace.”

Admirable, but not worth listening to. Jon’s fists clenched at his sides.

He made a last ditch effort. “I got a letter, from Castle Black. The realm needs to be united right now, Father! The real threat isn’t all these games in King’s Landing or even Mance’s army, but an army of the dead like in the stories and—”

“Old Nan’s _stories_?” Ned’s face was thunderous. “Is _this_ what it’s all about? All this time, I had thought—but it turns out you’re just worried about fairy stories and hidden monsters. Lately, I’ve wondered what’s gotten into you, but to think that it was _this_.”

“But—”

A scowl on his lips, Ned raised an arm, pointing towards the door, “Get out!”

The angrier his father became, the less he showed. Jon could only stare for a moment, shocked. He had never seen his Lord Father like this. And then, trembling, he bowed, and left.

Jory gave him a concerned look as he passed, no doubt having heard the raised voices if nothing else. Jon couldn’t even conjure up the effort to smile back weakly. His mind was awhirl as he made his way back to his rooms. His father had refused to even hear him.

“I tried,” he said to the castle floors, “it might be as he’s said, a short war. Maybe Renly won’t defect after all.”

The stone beneath his feet did not reply, but he saw it run with blood. Stark blood.

Jon sucked in a sharp breath, and the vision vanished. Shaking, he stumbled to the wall, and leant his head against the cool surface. His eyes squeezed shut of their own accord.

What should he do? What should he do?

He wished more than ever that he could seek Tyrion’s counsel. But it wasn’t fair to have such a thought, not when he had destroyed Tyrion’s family.

He breathed in. Then breathed out. Slowly, the rapid staccato of his heart steadied into smooth calmness. Then he opened his eyes, and went to find Varys.

Jaime Lannister sat chained in his cell with his arms pulled back behind him, head bowed and breathing shallowly through his nose. His injuries had not been tended to, and the smell of urine wafted up from his clothing.

At the sound of a click of a latch, he looked up. But the iron door was still closed, still acting as the best guard against the king’s prisoner. Blearily, Jaime looked around, muttering under his breath a question of whether he was truly going as insane as he felt. It was then that he seemed to hear the faint footsteps from his right. A wince crossing his expression as his neck twitched, Jaime turned his head, mouth opened no doubt to make a smart quip, when he saw who it was. His glassy green eyes widened with recognition.

“What are you doing here?” Jaime asked in shock.

Jon’s face was twisted into a grim smile. “What else? I’m here to avert the war you’re going to start.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/n: Surprise! An update before Winds of Winter. On the other hand, I did say I would update ‘next year’ and since it’s nearing the end of 2016 even with no Book Six in sight, you guys deserved it. Sorry that the quality of the second half went down, but I wanted to get this out. Merry Christmas everyone!
> 
> p.s. Bran’s basically honest with Jon, but he’s a boy who has a lot of curiosity and he does make his reasoning for eavesdropping sound a lot better than it actually is. I’m just putting it out there that what a character says to Jon is not automatically what they actually did, even if they love him. Also, I know the Bran overhearing thing seems a bit coincidental, but Varys would have eventually told Jon about Tywin’s letter anyway, so I did it this way for the sake of story flow.


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